


England Enchanted

by Zeplerfer



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Curse of Obedience, M/M, Minor Character Death, canonverse, magical mishap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-14 15:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 41,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9190307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeplerfer/pseuds/Zeplerfer
Summary: After mistakenly ingesting an obedience potion during his New Year’s binge with Prussia, England desperately tries to find an antidote before anyone, particularly America, realizes what’s happening. His situation grows steadily worse until he can find the one sentiment that's strong enough to break the spell.





	1. Chapter 1

After a New Year’s Eve spent celebrating with Prussia, England woke up sprawled on his dining room floor next to a sticky pool of spilled beer. He groaned and squinted his eyes against the piercing afternoon light. Even with his pounding headache and the gaps in his memory, it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out what had happened. Judging by the unusual collection of empty bottles of various shapes and sizes scattered across the room, they had plundered his liquor cabinet, and then when that ran out (because even England didn't keep an _endless_ supply of alcohol), they had moved on to his collection of potions in the basement.

Some of those potions had rather strange effects, but England wasn’t too worried. It took more than magic to hurt a nation and he didn't seem to have cat ears or anything silly like that. He groggily climbed to his feet and wobbled to the bathroom, swearing for the millionth time that he would never drink again.

Sadly, despite all his magical research over the centuries, he had never figured out how to brew a cure for a hangover. England took a couple ibuprofen instead. He also wished that he could do something about his country's proclivity for binge drinking. Surely his nation's high drinking rate was what compelled him to agree to drinking contests with Prussia.

Determined to clean up the mess before any government official came to visit, he grabbed a trash bag and started picking up the empty bottles. An expert of German brews could have identified most of the brands, but England just tossed them into the bag so he could take them out on recycling day. Once the recyclables were packed away, he cleaned up the sticky spill with a wet paper towel, hoping that the beer hadn't stained the antique hardwood. Next time he would insist on drinking at Germany's house, even if Ludwig did glare at them the entire time.

Before he had finished returning his furniture to its proper upright position, the sound of a ringing phone pierced England’s skull. He winced and set the full bag of bottles to the side. With any luck, it was someone he could ignore.

Unfortunately, the caller id showed Buckingham Palace. America always called him a technological neophyte, but England adapted quickly to _useful_ technology. Caller id allowed him to ignore annoying calls from American idiots, and thus ranked higher than electric kettles and bagged tea on his list of useful inventions.

"Good morning, your majesty," England mumbled as he answered the phone.

“It’s _afternoon_ , my dear country,” the Queen responded, her voice a soothing balm.

“Ah. I was… up late,” England replied.

“I’m sure you were." She chuckled. "It's okay that you want to celebrate the new year, love. Perhaps this would even be a good time for a little holiday.”

England shook his head. “It’s never a good time.” The Queen always told him that he worked too hard and that his country would prefer he take a break instead of suffering from exhaustion. She grew particularly insistent around the holidays. He wondered if she had heard about the drinking binge or if she had just assumed based on the date. Either way, it fit her style to press him in a moment of weakness—like when he was suffering from a pounding headache.

"England, I insist. Take off a fortnight. You more than deserve it," she said with her characteristic brand of soft persistence.

"All right," England promptly agreed, surprising himself almost as much as he surprised the Queen. He wondered what had overcome him. Perhaps the hangover had addled his brain more than he thought.

"Lovely! I'll send Wales to the next conference," she replied, moving quickly to iron out the details before England could change his mind. "Take care, my dear."

England opened his mouth, intending to tell the Queen that he had far too much work and couldn't take a break, but the words refused to leave his mouth. He wished her a happy new year and set down the receiver with a look of confusion.

It seemed that he unexpectedly had two weeks of free time on his hands.

* * *

After a little nap and a bit more cleaning, England’s first stop was the grocery store. For one, he needed more alcohol. And second, if he was going to be spending some free time around the house, he wanted a chance to test out some new recipes.

As he walked down the store's narrow aisles, a salesman offered him a sample of sausage. "Try some!" he said. England meant to decline (his stomach was still a little delicate), but he found himself accepting a piece anyway.

He decided that he must have just wanted to be polite and thought nothing of it.

Later that evening, as England was flipping through the channels while working on a piece of embroidery, he heard a woman in an infomercial selling some gaudy necklace for ‘only’ £19.95. He scoffed when she claimed that the necklace contained genuine red garnets. England could recognize inexpensive amethysts when he saw them. "Buy now!" she said and England instantly reached for the phone and placed an order. As soon as he hung up, he sat there dumbfounded by his impulsive decision.

He knew that commercialism was a terrible blight (one of the many evils he blamed on America and China, those twats), but he wondered if it had spontaneously become a disease and infected his brain. Three times in the past few hours he had done something he didn't want to do simply because someone had told him to.

England caught his breath as a terrible suspicion entered his mind. Perhaps it wasn't a disease, perhaps it was _magic_.

He dashed into the dining room and dumped the bags of empty bottles onto the floor. They weren’t all beer bottles and _this_ time he checked the labels. Eventually, he found the small bottle he was looking for.

An extremely old obedience potion.

And the bottle was completely empty.

* * *

For the next week, England refused to go outside or answer the phone. He searched through his magical grimoires, desperate to find an antidote. Every spell had a counterspell, and every potion had an antidote. He just had to find it.

He ignored the calls from government officials on Tuesday. They were undoubtedly wondering why he had stopped responding to their emails and phone messages, but Buckingham Palace would clue them in soon enough.

On Wednesday, he enjoyed blessed silence.

Thursday, he started to receive a number of calls from America. The other nation was either prank calling him ( _again_ ) or had dreamt up some cockamamie scheme that he wanted to share, like the time he was convinced that he could teach aliens how to make hamburgers and spread McDonald's throughout the galaxy. England turned a deaf ear to the ringing phone. He also ignored the flashing red light on his voicemail, afraid that even America’s recorded voice could order him to do something.

By the weekend, America had stopped calling. England relaxed, though he should have realized that his problem was about to become much worse.

Oblivious to his impending doom, England spread out all of the books he had ever collected on potions across the floor of his library each day and flipped through them, hoping to find an answer. He kept reading through the night and into the early morning, taking a break only to make a fresh pot of tea. He fell asleep reading a book and woke up around noon covered in dusty pages and scrawled notes.

As he tossed aside what had turned out to be another useless spell book, England heard a sound from his driveway. He climbed slowly to his feet and peered out the window overlooking his front yard. A cold chill ran down his spine as a taxi cab pulled up the driveway.

The taxi came to a stop and for a few tense seconds, nothing happened. England held his breath. As much as he hoped it was someone with the wrong address, the lead weight in his stomach suggested otherwise. The car door flung open. He gulped and watched a golden-haired figure climb out.

It was his worst nightmare. It was proof that Murphy’s Law controlled the universe. It was America.

England turned on his heels and ran, hoping to get out of earshot. If he couldn't _hear_ America, he wouldn't have to obey his unintentional commands. He ducked into his bedroom, buried himself under the sheets, and clapped a pillow over his ears.

Of all the countries who could possibly come to visit, America was the worst possible option. Half of America's comments were commands ("England, stop being so stodgy!" - "Geez, old man, loosen up!" - "England, don't cook or you'll burn down the whole house!") and he was so oblivious he would never realize what was happening.

After a moment’s thought, England decided that _France_ was actually the worst possible option. France was clever enough to recognize the effects of the obedience potion and he would use it to his advantage. And perhaps Russia, Prussia, Hong Kong, India, and China were all terrible options as well. He suspected that China had never forgiven him for the Opium Wars. But if England wrote a list of "countries I don't want near me while I'm under the influence of an obedience potion," America would definitely be in the top ten.

Even with his head buried under the pillow, England could hear the doorbell ring once… twice… three times. Each time the bell rang, he buried his head deeper beneath the pillow and tried to block out the sounds. America was persistent, but even he would give up eventually… right?

The third ring was the last and for a few minutes, blessed silence reigned. Maybe the entire universe wasn’t plotting against him. As the silence continued to drag out, England started to relax and loosened his grip on the pillow.

And that's when he heard the crash of exploding glass. A second later, several loud thumps in the foyer were followed by the sound of America shouting.

"Hey, England, I've brought hamburgers!" the younger nation yelled, his voice echoing in the foyer and the stairwell. Footsteps pounded up to England’s bedroom and the door slammed open. “There you are!” America strode over and shook England's shoulder. When he got no response, he shook a little harder. "Come on, Iggy, talk to me.”

"I told you not to call me that ridiculous name," England mumbled into the mattress, unable to resist the direct command. "Not even Japan uses that name and it's his bloody language." He sighed and lifted the pillow off his head. Since he couldn't avoid America, he might as well stop cowering under the sheets. He would try and face the other nation with dignity. England took a deep breath and rolled over. As soon as his eyes faced the ceiling, America plopped a burger on his forehead.

So much for dignity.

England shoved the burger onto a nearby pillow. He would have thrown it into the rubbish bin by the side of his bed, but America always whined and pouted when he did that. "Why did you break into my house?" he demanded instead.

America shrugged and sat down next to him on the mattress, causing the springs to protest at the extra weight. "You didn't answer your phone so I figured you were sick and in need of hamburgers. Canada suggested that I should come check to see if you were dead or anything." He rested a hand on England's forehead. "So, what's up? Bird flu? Bad economy? Global warming?"

England pushed the hand away. "None of the above. And if you really want to help, you could start by fixing the window you broke.”

“Hey, don’t get angry. I had to bust in because you weren’t answering the door.”

“I’m not angry,” England reassured him. With the spell in place, the anger simply melted away. He was just annoyed. And tired. And worried about what would happen if America started issuing even more orders. The obedience potion threatened to give America total control over England’s emotions; as if he didn't have a dangerous level of control already.

Pushing aside the America problem in favor of his more immediate physical issues, England pulled himself out of bed, determined to see how bad the damage was. He walked downstairs with America following close behind. From the base of the stairs, he could see a gaping hole in the front window of the parlor and broken shards spread across floor. At least America had chosen to break one of the plain glass windows instead of the lovely stained-glass panels on either side of the front door.

"What is it with you and breaking windows?" England groused. He walked over to the phone intending to call a maintenance company to repair the window.

"C'mon, old man, relax," America breezily replied. "I'll fix it. Don't worry about it!”

"Oh… okay." Veering away from the phone, England plopped down onto his sofa. America was right, there was no point in stressing over a broken window. Feeling calm and carefree, he slumped against the back of the sofa and gave America a loose smile. The Queen wanted him to enjoy his holiday, and what better way than dozing on the sofa on a lazy Sunday afternoon? Not even the slightly worried expression on American's face could ruin his state of total relaxation.

"Uh, England?” America waved a hand in front of his face.

England blinked lethargically. "Mmm?"

"You haven't taken up smoking with Mattie, have you? Or maybe Denmark?"

"What…?” England gently shook his head. “No… I’m just… relaxing.”

“Sure you are.” America grinned slyly. "Tell you what: you nap and I'll fix the window."

“O… kay.” England yawned as the effects of his sleepless night hit him like a truck. He wasn't sure why he'd been so worried about finding an antidote. It seemed like a minor concern now. He stretched out on the sofa, touching the far end with the tips of his toes. With one final, ear-splitting yawn, he rested his head against the sofa pillows and fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 Hours later, England woke to the sound of America moving around in his kitchen. He blinked and stretched, returning to full wakefulness as slowly and gradually as the tide coming in. Feeling much less stressed after his nap, he pushed off a lovely quilted blanket that he didn't remember grabbing as he fell asleep and padded over to the newly repaired window.

The new pane of glass sparkled in the afternoon light. At least America had kept his promise. But there was still a problem, wasn't there? His sense of carefree relaxation slowly turning to unease, England continued on to the kitchen, where he found America busy putting away enough groceries to feed an army. Most of it was processed and packaged and sugary and fatty and completely unhealthy.

"Good grief, what's all that for?" England asked from the kitchen doorway.

America stuffed the remaining ice cream cartons in the freezer and grinned. "I think this should last us a week, but I might have to get more."

"What makes you think you're staying?" England demanded. As tempting as it was to ignore the problem, he knew he wouldn’t be safe until he got the other nation out of his house. Letting America putter around while he tried to find a cure for his obedience potion was a recipe for disaster.

America gave him an exasperated look. "Because you're sick and I'm not going to let you die of oldtimer's or something uncool like that."

"Alzheimer's, America, it’s Alzheimer’s." England crossed his arms. "And I'm not sick. I feel fine."

"Pfft. You don't sleep during the day unless you're sick."

"I do when I'm on holiday."

America gaped and nearly dropped a jar of peanut butter on the floor. "You're on _vacation_? But you never go on vacation!"

"The Queen insisted.”

"Dude, that's even better! We can do all sorts of fun shit. I’ve been wanting to visit Disney London for weeks!”

"No. Absolutely not. Go home and work on your bleeding healthcare system! It's a national disgrace."

"But that's _boring_ ," America whined. "Come on, I fixed your window for you."

England sighed and rubbed his temples. "America, for the thousandth time, you don't get credit for fixing something when you were the one who broke it in the first place. That’s why no one cares what you’ve done for the economy lately."

“Oh.” America glanced down at the kitchen floor. “I see.”

“Speaking of which, you should go home and work on your economy too.” Even as he said it, a wave of guilt washed over England’s conscience. It wasn’t fair of him to blame America for wrecking the world economy. Many countries had played a role. But it was still too dangerous to let America stay with him given America’s penchant for ridiculous plans and his extremely suggestible state.

Eyes bright and wide, America lifted his gaze and gave England a pleading look. He gestured toward the refrigerator and pantry. “But I’ve already unpacked all the food!”

England took a deep breath and braced himself against the beguiling influence of America’s puppy-dog eyes. “You can pack it up again.”

“The hotel won’t have a big enough refrigerator.”

“Not my problem.”

“I’ll do all the cooking,” America offered.

“That’s not an enticement."

“I’ll let _you_ do all the cooking.”

"That's..." England opened and closed his mouth, resolve weakening in the face of an unexpected culinary victory. “Really? And you won’t complain?”

America wrinkled his nose. “I wouldn’t go that far. C’mon, dude. Let me stay.”

Unable to resist the direct command, England relented. “Fine,” he muttered. He turned on his heels and walked out of the kitchen, hoping that America would assume he gave in because of the cooking, not for any other reason. Come hell or high water, he couldn’t let America know the incredibly dangerous power his words held at the moment.

He could see it was going to be a _very_ difficult week.

Little did England know, it would actually end up being an incredibly difficult _year_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is dedicated to 2017. God, it's going to be an awful year. I'll try to make it a bit better the only way I know how: with magic spells, delicious angst, and good ol' USUK.
> 
> As you can probably guess, the premise is based on Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine.


	2. Chapter 2

After a couple days spent enjoying a James Bond marathon and plenty of take-out, England admitted to himself that he _might_ have overestimated America’s destructive power. So far, about the worst thing the younger nation had made him do was stay up past his bedtime and concede that he liked the Filet-O-Fish sandwich they had picked up at McDonald’s.

“I knew it!” America crowed, but he looked so genuinely happy that England felt only a slight twinge of embarrassment at the coerced confession.

“Just because it’s the healthiest option on the menu,” England quickly added.

“Riiight.” America laughed and popped another fry into his mouth. “Give me the remote, you’ve got the volume too low.”

Rolling his eyes, England threw the remote at America’s shoulder. Yes, he had to obey the command, but over the past couple of days he had discovered a remarkable amount of leeway in _how_ he obeyed. As long as he somehow gave America the remote, he could interpret the command in the manner he preferred. In this case, he chose violence.

Unfazed by the projectile smacking his shoulder, America grabbed the remote from where it had fallen onto the sofa cushions between them and upped the volume as high as it would go for the Goldfinger action sequence.

“This is the best part,” America gushed, eyes gleaming with excitement. “They actually filmed it at Fort Knox!”

“You just love seeing yourself on film,” England replied with another eye roll, even as he enjoyed watching Sean Connery beat up the bad guy and parachute away with his Bond girl. Of course, the dashing Brit always got the girl. As the credits rolled, he glanced over at America and caught a hint of a wistful smile on the other nation’s lips; it disappeared a second later when America shoveled another fry into his mouth. “You’re going to die of a heart attack if you keep eating like that,” England warned.

“Hey, I’m not fat. Look at my abs!” America turned toward England and lifted his shirt to show off a stomach that wasn’t as flabby as England often claimed.

Of course, it was _only_ because of the verbal command that England spent so long staring at America’s tanned stomach, unable to look away.

“See? Not fat, right?” America demanded.

“Not fat,” England agreed. “Just a fathead.” He tore his gaze away and stood up to return the Goldfinger DVD to its proper chronological spot in his collection of James Bond movies. “You didn’t have to come all the way over here to watch my movies, you know. I would have lent them to you.”

“Pfft. I don’t need ‘em. I got the Blu-rays. _And_ a better TV.”

England turned around and arched an eyebrow. As stupid as America sometimes seemed, he rarely acted with no reason. “So what _did_ you come here for?”

The younger nation smiled innocently and pulled down his shirt to cover his stomach again. “Oh, y’know. No reason.”

“I see.” England gave that explanation the dubious look it deserved.

America stretched his arms over his head and glanced at the pendulum clock. “Hey, look at the time! It’s way past your bedtime, old man.”

Sure enough, it was nearly midnight. “It’s not that late,” England insisted, unwilling to admit that it was, in fact, past his normal bedtime.

“Yeah, well, you’re sick so you need some rest.” America jumped to his feet, grabbed England by the shoulders, and herded him up the stairs to his bedroom. “C’mon, go to bed.”

“I’m perfectly fine and you know it,” England groused, turning around to face America when they reached the edge of his bed and the compulsion stopped propelling him forward. “You obviously have something planned. Just tell me what it is,” he demanded, even knowing America would ignore his question. Life would be so much easier if America were the one who had drunk the obedience potion instead.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have a super cool surprise planned for tomorrow.” America paused a second after realizing his mistake. “Crap. Uh, sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite!” he called over his shoulder, dashing out of the bedroom before England could respond.

For once, the obedience potion proved useful. Despite his worries and concerns, England slept very well that night.

* * *

Waking up was a different story.

“England, wake up!” America shouted in his face. England’s eyes shot open and his vision was filled with the sight of blue eyes shining in the dawn’s early light. America looked as eager and excited as a child on Christmas morning. He flapped two pieces of paper in front of England’s face. “Look what I have!”

“Oh goody. Two pieces of paper,” England replied. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t make out any of the writing as the tickets blurred past his face.

“They’re Extra Supercalifragilistic Passes to Disney London!”

England dropped his head back onto his pillow. “The only part of that sentence I liked was ‘London.’”

“C’mon. Get up, get ready! They open in an hour and we’ve gotta be there.”

Grumbling to himself, England pulled himself out of bed and leisurely selected an outfit from his wardrobe. “So this is what you were calling about last week?” he guessed.

America nodded excitedly. “I was gonna bug you about getting tickets but then you didn’t pick up and your assistant said you were outta the office so I figured you were sick and needed a hamburger and then I could bug you once you were healthy!”

“I’d rather you not pester me at all.”

“But if I don’t, you’ll just sit here being _boring_ all the time,” America pointed out with impeccable logic. He gave England another bright smile and then hurried off to get ready himself.

Taking his sweet time, England finally settled on a black polo and a pair of well-worn jeans. He meandered down to the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. He was still sipping his Earl Grey when America came barreling down the stairs with his coat in one hand and his boots in the other.

“You’re not ready yet?” America asked, dumping his winter gear in the hallway as he gave England an exasperated look.

“No.” Hoping to buy more time, England set a cup of instant coffee on the kitchen counter next to America. “I let you stay here on the agreement that I would get to cook and I haven’t cooked anything yet. So what would you like for breakfast?”

America sighed. “I dunno. Make me something delicious.”

As America loaded his coffee with cream and sugar, England began whipping up an omelet. His hands moved on their own accord, grabbing ingredients and stirring them together with impressive speed. He let the eggs cook on one side for a minute and then flipped the omelet high into the air. Even America was impressed when it landed exactly in the middle of the pan.

“Whoa,” America breathed. His reaction was even better when England loaded the ham-and-cheese omelet onto a plate and set it on the table in the breakfast nook. America sat down. He studied the omelet carefully and took a bite. His eyes widened and he stared up at England in shock. “This is really, really good. Like _France_ level good.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” England retorted, even as he felt a warm giddiness in his chest. He hurriedly made toast for his own breakfast and joined America at the breakfast table. It was a delight to watch the younger nation devour the golden omelet. He hadn’t seen America so happy to eat his homemade cooking in… a very long time.

“Yum.” America licked his lips and grinned when he finished. “I don’t know how you did it except…” his eyes widened again. “Magic!”

England nearly choked on his toast.

“Disney magic because the whole day is going to be awesome so it made your omelet awesome.” America beamed with excitement.

It was an absurd explanation, but it saved England from having to admit the truth, so he just nodded and went along with America’s zany idea. “Sure, why not,” he agreed.

* * *

Castle walls greeted them at the entrance to Disney London, but not the sort of solid, stone walls that England was used to. These castles looked like the fanciful tiers of a beautiful wedding cake. They sparkled and gleamed unlike any castle England had ever seen. In orderly queues, crowds of eager families stood bundled in their coats and scarves and waited to enter the sprawling park. One month after the grand opening, it was still doing a brisk business.

America grabbed England by the hand and tugged him through the crowds to a separate entrance with a much shorter line. Attendants took the tickets from America and whisked them under a portcullis decorated with glass flowers.

A brunette attendant beamed at England and slipped a silvery electronic bracelet onto his wrist. “Mr. England, we’re so pleased you both could come. This pass will give you instant access to any ride. We hope you enjoy your visit and put in a good word for us!” She handed them each a map and winked.

America flashed her a thumbs-up sign and accepted his wrist-pass from a different attendant. “Don’t worry, he will!”

“What exactly did you promise to get these passes?” England demanded as they joined the bustling crowds on Main Street. The currents of people moved slowly, taking their time to gawk at the cute stores and restaurants that filled both sides of the street.

“Don’t worry about it,” America replied, stepping around a family with a stroller that had stopped to watch a performance by a girl dressed up as Alice in Wonderland. She asked the nearby children for help finding a little white rabbit and they eagerly aided her search.

England smiled to himself when one of the children found the stuffed white rabbit and got to keep it as a reward. As much as he enjoyed watching the children play, he tried not to pay them too much attention. They were the only two men without children he could see and he didn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression. Perhaps he should have invited Sealand, but then again, in his current state that would likely result in him being ordered to recognize Sealand as a sovereign nation.

While they walked along Main Street, America studied his map with a determination he never gave to documents in world meetings. “Ooh, let’s start with Never Never Land!”

“You would pick the boy who wouldn’t grew up.”

America gave him an annoyed look. “C’mon. Be nice for a day!”

“All right,” England agreed, his heart lightening as he looked around at all the happy families enjoying themselves on a sunny winter day. “Let’s go see the Lost Boys and Tinkerbell.”

The grin returned to its usual place on America’s face. “Yeah, that’s the Disney magic!”

Past the shops, they crossed a bridge over a small river and found themselves in a section of the park dedicated to rides. America and England used their passes to skip the line for Peter Pan’s Flight.

They buckled themselves into a tiny ship that moved on a rail suspended from the ceiling. As the ride began, a hint of glittery ‘fairy dust’ rained from above. Below them, the familiar Peter Pan story unfolded as the Darling children left their nursey and flew across London at night. 

Even though England knew it was just a diorama, the realistic details of the city took his breath away. This wasn’t modern London—no, they had provided an accurate depiction of Victorian London. He would have enjoyed spending more time studying the details, but the ship kept sailing onward past twinkling stars and into a cloudy sky.

The mist and fog opened up to reveal a lush, verdant tropical island. Filled with real plants and amazingly life-like animatronics, it was even more breath-taking than the view of London at night. Captain Hook battled Peter Pan on his pirate ship while mermaids frolicked in a turquoise lagoon. The ride-makers created the impression that they were flying down to the island by making the set designs larger and larger the further they went. They ‘flew’ into a large knot on a tree and found themselves in the heart-wrenching scene where Tinkerbell drank the poisoned medicine to save Peter Pan.

The animatronic boy glanced up at their ship. “Please, you have to save her! Clap if you believe in fairies!” he begged.

Beside their fallen sister, other animatronic fairies with glowing wings had gathered. Amidst the electronic fairies, real ones flitted nearby. They wore flower petals and leaves for clothing and their wings gleamed as beautifully as a hummingbird’s.

“I believe, I believe!” America clapped enthusiastically. He nudged England’s shoulder. “Clap, England, clap!”

England clapped his hands and smiled as the real fairies waved and smiled back. Even if no one could see them, here they could bask in the warmth of childlike belief.

“Thank you, thank you!” Peter Pan cried.

The ride ended with beautiful fairies dancing alongside the floating ship as triumphant music played. Even if they weren’t as lovely as the real ones, it was still a gorgeous sight.

“So what’d ya think?” America asked happily as they disembarked the ship and stepped outside into the sunlight.

“That was lovely.”

“Yeah, it’s way more updated than the Disney World one.”

“I’m surprised you clapped for the fairies,” England said, glancing over at the younger nation who normally laughed at England’s ‘delusions.’

“Of course! They’re the best part of the ride.”

“I thought so, too.”

They walked in companionable silence as America led the way to his next choice—the 101 Dalmatians Dog Park. They once again used their passes to skip the line and found themselves inside an indoor stadium filled with fake grass, real trees, and dozens of people playing with a wide assortment of dogs and puppies.

“Would you prefer a Dalmatian or a personality pick?” the attendant asked them as they left their winter gear in the cloak room.

“What’s a personality pick?” America asked.

“We try to match you with a dog that best matches your personality.”

“Oooh, let’s do that!” America cried, eagerly pulling England over to the area where they could be ‘matched’ with a dog. They were each handed a tablet with a set of questions. America grinned playfully and swapped tablets with England. “Do me, and I’ll do you!”

England stared at the questions. “We didn’t have to swap tablets,” he pointed out.

America stuck out his tongue in thought and diligently applied himself to the questions. “Let’s see, plans for Friday night… ‘tea and book.’ Go-to dance move… ‘judging in the corner.’ Cure for a hangover… ‘hiding under the covers and crying.’”

“Hey!” England protested.

“What?” America grinned. “It’s true.”

“Well it’s also true that your Friday night plans are bingeing on Netflix,” England retorted as he selected that option. “‘Stepping on toes’ for a dance move and ‘anything greasy’ as a hangover cure.”

“Mmm, grease.” America punched more England-like responses as England returned the favor. “Superhero's definitely the right answer for the last one!” he said as he finished filling out the survey and handed in his tablet.

England glanced down. ‘How would your friends describe you?’ the question asked. No way would he say 'superhero' for that one. His finger hovered over ‘needy,’ but the one he pressed was ‘comforting.’ As much as they bickered, America’s presence was like a colorful, comfy afghan.

Barely a minute later, an attendant came out with a bouncy, fluffy golden retriever and handed the lease to America. He grinned back, looking as excited as the dog. “Hey there, Comet!” he cried after reading the dog’s name tag. “You’re my new best friend!”

America and the golden retriever raced off to play catch on the giant indoor field. Meanwhile, England waited with trepidation for his canine match, more than a little worried about what answers America might have given.

To his delight, an attendant brought him a soft, cuddly Pembroke Welsh Corgi puppy. He lifted the puppy into his arms and felt his heart melt with happiness. The puppy licked his face and even nearby strangers stopped and cooed.

“Eng—Arthur, Arthur!” America shouted from half-way across the field to get his attention. “Come over here!”

England walked over, carrying the puppy in his arms to protect it from the other dogs. He walked slowly until America shouted at him to ‘Hurry up!’

“Look at what Comet can do!” America tossed a Frisbee to the dog and they both watched him jump several feet into the air to catch it.

“Very impressive,” England agreed as he set his puppy down and let him hop-run around them on his short stubby legs.

America grinned. “Aw, he’s so short and cute.”

“His name is Gawain and he’s very dignified,” England replied. The puppy flopped onto his side and begged for belly rubs. England indulged him.

As they played with the dogs, England noticed two teenagers with Dalmatians drawing closer. The two girls watched them unobtrusively, but it was easy for a skilled spy like England to spot them and notice their attention. He continued casually petting his corgi and listened in on their conversation. Judging by their accents, both were Americans.

“Oh, my god. Is that him?” one whispered.

“Wow. He’s even hotter in person,” the other replied.

“And look at his dog. So cute!”

They both sighed wistfully. England glanced up and watched as America played tug-of-war with his golden retriever. He wasn’t surprised when the women walked over to join them, but he was surprised when they turned to talk to him instead of America.

“Excuse me, Mr. England? Could I get a picture of you with that puppy?” the first one asked as the second gave him a love-struck look. Oh. He blinked at them in surprise, but nevertheless agreed with a gentlemanly nod. Flattered by the attention, he even let them take photos with him, spending enough time that America came over to see what all the fuss was about.

“Hi, Mr. America!” the girls chorused. They glanced back and forth between the two nations and gave each other a conspiratorial look. “Do you think we could get a picture of you two together?” one asked with a winsome smile.

“Of course!” America agreed, swinging his arm around England’s shoulder. He grinned and nudged England’s shoulder. “Smile, England!”

“So is it true that you two, um, you know…” one teen started to ask after taking the picture. Her cheeks turned pink as she trailed off into a flustered silence.

America gave her a blank look. “That we what?”

“Are more than just allies,” the second teen explained.

“Sure.” America shrugged. “We’ve had a special relationship since like the ‘40s.”

The girl shook her head. “No, I mean, between you two, but not, like, as countries?”

“Uh, what?” America’s blank stare continued.

England buried his face into his hands. Despite his exasperation, he couldn’t stop smiling. “Oh, for god’s sake,” he muttered into his palms. “They’re asking if we’re dating!”

“No, no!” America gaped and frantically waved his hands in front of him. “I’m totally straight. Very straight. England’s just a friend. Isn’t that right, England? Tell them how straight I am!”

Given the way America had phrased the command, England couldn’t lie, but he also didn’t want to upset America by telling the truth. With a new order overriding the smile, he lifted his head from his hands and gazed at America with an air of assessment. He settled on obfuscation. “I’d say he’s about a five on the Kinsey Scale.”

America wrinkled his nose. “Just a five?”

“The scale only goes up to six.”

“Well, then, I’m definitely a six!”

The girls grinned and nodded. One of them tapped her nose. “That’s so cool. Thanks for the pictures! My friends are going to be so jealous!”

They waved and walked away. “I can see why the Queen laid back and thought of England,” one whispered to another and they both giggled.

After another hour spent playing with Comet, America reluctantly returned him to the attendants. England was pretty sure America would have tried to keep the golden retriever except that it was time for lunch and they wouldn’t allow dogs in the restaurant.

They ate at an Italian restaurant based on the one in the Lady and the Tramp. Fortunately, no one asked him and America to share a plate of spaghetti. America even insisted on getting separate checks—strange, given that their passes covered the cost of lunch.

A few more rides later, they finished the day with a sing-along performance of Mary Poppins. As the actors danced and sang onstage, words appeared on subtitles below them for the audience to sing. America’s tenor stood out amongst the young audience, but he sang with gusto. Even England joined in, enjoying the opportunity to act like a carefree child instead of an overwhelmed millennium-old nation.

As much as he hated to admit it, he was starting to think that his Queen was right about the importance of taking vacations. And even America could be a source of good ideas when it came to having fun.

“Thanks,” England said once they returned to his house. “I had a good time.”

“Me, too,” America agreed with a smile. He took a step closer to England, then suddenly stepped back with an odd look. “That was a fun thing that friends do and it was really fun. So, um, I’m gonna get packed.”

England frowned. “You’re leaving already?”

“Yep. I was only here for Disney London and nothing else, so… bye.” America rushed upstairs to grab his luggage and then ran outside to catch a taxi with a halfhearted wave.

Irked by the oddly abrupt departure, England reminded himself that he was much safer without America around. He grabbed a book, brewed a pot of tea, and settled in for his usual Friday night spent happily alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tragically, Disney London is not (yet) a real place. The [Dog Personality Quiz](https://www.buzzfeed.com/chelseamarshall/what-kind-of-dog-are-you) is, however, so feel free to take it and post your results! I'm a Cocker Spaniel :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads-up that I have added a warning for minor character death. This story is complete fiction and any resemblance to actual public figures is just a literary device to follow the Cinderella story.

When he returned to work on Monday, England found his office just as he had left it. The oak paneling and wooden floor were as clean and pristine as always. Neat rows of old law books, English literature, and historical documents lined the bookshelves on either side of the fireplace. It was quite a lovely sight, except for the thick piles of paper covering the magnificent oak desk. England kept meaning to organize them, but he never seemed to find the time.

The ever-growing pile of historical documents was a testament to his many different roles over the centuries. For some Kings and Queens, he was a sage advisor. To others, he was a curiosity to show off at court. But as the power of the monarchy diminished, he found himself in the strange position of living more and more like a regular person with his own house and his own bank account. Yet he still tried to serve his country and his Queen as best he could.

For the past few decades, England had acted primarily as a palace historian, answering a broad range of questions for the political elite. He needed the books to jog his memory sometimes—other than the most important people and events, his memories tended to fade over a few centuries. Given what little he remembered of the 1300s, it was probably a blessing that he didn’t remember every fire, famine, or plague.

Sitting down at his desk, England pushed aside some papers and set his morning cup of tea onto a well-worn coaster. Just as the clock struck eight, his perfectly punctual assistant walked into the room and set another stack of papers into the already overflowing inbox. “Welcome back, sir. I hope you’re feeling better.”

“Much better,” England lied. He still hadn’t identified a solution to the obedience potion, but his work ethic would not allow him to let his pile of unanswered questions grow any larger. He flipped through the first few pages and sighed to himself when he saw the same name appear over and over again. “They always want to know about Churchill. No one ever asks me about Sir Robert Walpole.”

“Actually, one of the questions is about Jock.”

England raised an eyebrow. “Someone wants to know about Churchill’s _cat_?”

His assistant smiled. “Yes. An MP who’s quite the cat fancier herself.”

“Well, I’ll see what I remember, but I do recall some other important events were happening at the time,” England replied wryly.

“Oh, and Mr. Keller wants to schedule a one o’clock with you.”

England sighed. Nothing good ever came of his meetings with the CEO (Chief England Officer). “Somehow I doubt _he_ wants to discuss felines.”

“It does seem unlikely,” his assistant agreed, flashing England a sympathetic smile. He closed the door behind him as he left.

In the peace and quiet of his cozy office, England spent his morning answering questions ranging from the thought provoking to the trivial. As important as Churchill’s cat was, he focused on the other ones first. He tried to start with serious questions about rarely discussed topics. What had been the motivations of the major players who passed the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act of 1807? Had Churchill really used similar language to warn about the rise of Gandhi in the early 1930s that he used to describe Hitler? How had Churchill’s views on racial hierarchies and eugenics shifted over the years? There were many other questions of a more mundane nature. Some were even about England’s own personal life, which he considered far too private to answer. He tossed _those_ into the fireplace and watched with a satisfied smirk as the fire devoured the scraps of paper.

Shortly after lunch, his mobile buzzed a few times, announcing the receipt of a couple of texts from America. England debated ignoring them, but his phone quickly buzzed a few times more. He knew the texts would only grow more relentless until America received a response. It was easier to text back than spend the day ignoring his phone, and that was the _only_ reason England ever texted with America.

 

> **i looked up the kissey scale**
> 
> **whyd u say i was a 5? >** **:(**
> 
> **im totally straight!!!**
> 
> **im a 1 on the scale**
> 
> **im #1**
> 
> **im #1**
> 
> **im #1**

England rolled his eyes. He had hoped that America would finally come out of the closet as LGBT acceptance grew, but he had not accounted for the other nation’s terrible puritan streak. The Puritans were certainly part of England’s memories that he _wished_ he could forget.

This demanded a response. Pulling down the portion of his phone that served as a keypad, he took the time to punctuate his reply texts properly in the hopes that America would reciprocate and stop burning his eyes with textspeak.

 

> _I said it because it’s true._
> 
> _First, most nations are bisexual. It’s just the way we are._
> 
> _Second, you’ve never dated a woman in your life._
> 
> **not true! I dated julia roberts once**
> 
> _You didn’t date her. They just called her America’s sweetheart._
> 
> **but I thought she was hot!**
> 
> _Seriously?_
> 
> **okay no**

A few minutes passed and England wondered if the conversation was over. Perhaps America had received another text or gotten distracted by a shiny object. He returned to his questions, trying to remember why Churchill had thought Jock was a good name for a marmalade, until another buzz drew his eyes back to the phone.

 

> **look it’s not my fault all the lady nations are crazy or taken or have older brothers with tons of guns**
> 
> **(not that there’s anything wrong with guns)**
> 
> _That’s not true. Belgium is lovely and available_
> 
> **crazy cat lady**
> 
> **plus she’s really into you**
> 
> _I doubt it._
> 
> **4 realz. she only talks abt how cute u r**
> 
> **(she thinks ur cute not me)**
> 
> **i had to tell her u r super gay to get her to back off**

England shook his head and smiled to himself. Somehow he doubted Belgium had been discussing his physical appearance for her own benefit. But right now she was a distraction from the larger point that as much as America _talked_ about liking women, he never acted on it.

 

> _I haven’t forgotten the time you flirted with China._
> 
> **he looks so girly i thought he was a woman!**
> 
> _When are you finally going to admit the truth?_
> 
> **u just want me to be gay b/c you have the hots for me**

England set down his phone and sucked in a breath. He stared at his bookshelves, pondering how best to respond to America’s pointed remark. It was so offensive! He didn’t _want_ America to be gay for his own personal reasons, he just wanted the arrogant nation to finally admit the truth. Fortunately, America’s ego provided him with some relief a few seconds later. England didn’t have to delve into his complicated feelings when he could just complain about grammar instead.

 

> **i get it. im so hot every1 wants me :D  
>  **
> 
> _I do not. You can’t even spell the word you. It’s only three letters!_
> 
> **ADMIT IT: U LOVE US**
> 
> ***u’s**
> 
> **u love u’s**

Caught up in his texting with America, England didn’t even notice that it was already one o’clock until he heard Mr. Keller knock on his door. The old, balding man didn’t wait for a reply. He let himself in and sat down on the other side of England’s desk. “Are you having fun, playing on your mobile instead of doing work?” he demanded snidely.

England set his phone onto the desk and tried not to grimace. A few years ago, his government had gotten it into their collective heads that he could work more efficiently if he had someone arranging his schedule and supervising his activities. Never mind that England had centuries of experience being himself. He didn’t need help and he hated having a minder. It didn’t help that Mr. Keller was such a disagreeable man. His mouth was stuck in a permanent frown like he sucked lemons for a hobby. And the way he acted like he _owned_ England made England want to pull out his skinny jeans and sing punk rock at the top of his lungs.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Keller?” England asked with a tight-lipped smile.

“I want you to explain _this_ ,” the old man said, smacking a computer printout onto England’s desk.

England lifted it up and examined the picture. It was a photo of him and America posing at the Disney dog park with the corgi puppy and the golden retriever. He had a rare soft smile on his face and America practically glowed with happiness. It looked like a printout from Instagram, and judging by the number of likes, the post had become extremely popular.

“You have an Instagram account?” England asked, looking up in surprise.

Mr. Keller snorted. “Of course not. Some of the staff were cooing over it this morning—wasting their time instead of working. I made them print it out for me. But it does explain why I’ve been fielding inquiries this morning from companies all over Britain that want to send you products… as long as you post photos with them online.”

England perked up. “Any interest from Burberry?”

“That’s irrelevant. It looks bad for our national personification to play favorites with companies. Especially _foreign_ companies.”

“Well, I think Burberry would look very good on your country.”

Mr. Keller gave him an extra-sour look. “England, be serious.”

“I am serious,” England replied with a flat tone and an unflinching gaze. “I understand why you are concerned, but America paid for those tickets himself. I assure you, there was no hint of impropriety. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to return to this question.”

After a long, hard look, Mr. Keller nodded in satisfaction and let England return to his historical trivia in peace. He silenced his phone after a few more buzzes from incoming texts. Now was not the time for silly banter with America.

For the rest of the afternoon, England applied himself diligently to his pile of work. He wrote short, crisp answers to his backlog of questions, not delving into amusing stories about the larger-than-life personalities he had met over the centuries. He took a break only when it was time for tea—because England took tea very seriously.

He brewed his afternoon Darjeeling to perfection and was carrying it back to his desk when a sharp pain lanced through his heart. He dropped the mug, shattering it on the floor.

“God, no,” England whispered.

* * *

By the time England arrived at the hospital, his Queen was already surrounded by her family. He nodded at the guards and slipped into the hospital room, unnoticed by the quiet, solemn group gathered next to her hospital bed. It was a well-appointed room, with soft linens and crisp curtains that looked much nicer than the usual fabric in hospitals. But the faint antiseptic smell and the noises from the machines were still the same as any other hospital room.

England edged along the periphery until he caught a glimpse of the Queen resting in her hospital bed. It suddenly struck him how old she was, as she lay on the bed with her eyes half-closed as she labored for breath. How had nine decades gone by so fast? In his mind’s eye, she was still the young queen who had taken on so many burdens at such a tender age. She was still the girl with an impish smile who loved playing at her father’s desk. She was still the woman who had greeted hundreds of world leaders with tact and graceful diplomacy. Now she was hooked up to a ventilator and struggling to fill her lungs.

His heart clenched and he struggled to keep his eyes from watering further. He should have been used to the pain of losing a monarch. And yet it hurt so much every time, even for the ones who were foolish and unpopular. For the ones he had truly loved, the pain cut like an ice dagger through his heart. He had to speak with her one last time, but he couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye.

After a few moments, the Queen’s tired eyes shifted to look in his direction. England wasn’t sure if she could actually see him, but a slight tingling on his skin suggested that she felt his presence. Even for his dearest monarchs this personal connection was rare, and it meant that the pain of losing her would be amplified a thousand-fold.

Oblivious to the Queen’s shift in focus, a small group of family members continued to speak with each in hushed whispers next to her bed.

“When do we tell the press?” her youngest son asked in a tired voice.

The heir apparent shook his head uncertainly. His second wife stepped closer and placed her hand on his arm. “You have to make an announcement soon. There are too many people who know—one of them will leak the story.”

They continued discussing who would be best to make the announcement as England slowly approached the hospital bed and gently clasped his Queen’s hand. His presence didn’t disturb their conversation, but the Queen’s children did move to the side of the room to give them more privacy.

“My dear… country,” the Queen rasped. England bent his head closer as she reached out to caress his cheek with a weak, unsteady hand.

For a few minutes, he simply held her hand and tried to convey his undying love and support. Voice thick with emotion, he leaned closer to her ear and made the oath he had spoken to all of her predecessors and would make to her heirs. Although his precise wording had shifted with the times, the sentiment always stayed the same.

“For as long as there is an England, I will remember you,” he swore.

The Queen flashed him the tiniest hint of a smile. “Fondly… I hope?” she whispered before another coughing fit racked her frail body. She closed her eyes and struggled to breathe.

“Of course,” England replied. He tried to comfort her by giving her hand a gentle squeeze—just enough to let her know he was still there. There were others waiting to say their farewell, but he couldn’t bear to leave.

She opened her eyes again when her coughs subsided, gaze dimmed by pain. After a few more moments to recover her breath, she gathered her strength to bid him a final farewell in a thin, raspy voice. “Take care of yourself,” was all she asked of him.

England nodded and gave up the struggle to hold back his tears. “I will,” he promised.


	4. Chapter 4

In the days after the Queen’s death, England didn’t want to get out of bed, but her final command forced him to shower, eat, and exercise, continuing the activities of daily life even though he felt numb inside. On the day of her funeral, he made a hearty breakfast and drank a strong cup of tea. Looking as presentable as he could manage, he wore a somber suit and stood with the royal family members when the gun carriage holding the casket arrived at Westminster Abbey.

Mourners packed both sides of the street as far as the eye could see. Ordinary citizens and even a few tourists stood shoulder to shoulder in a sea of black, many sniffling or trying to hide their tears. The last time England had seen so many spectators genuinely sad at a state funeral had been two decades earlier, when the crown prince’s first wife tragically passed away. This time, at least, they were marking the end of a long, full life.

As he had so many times before, England watched the funeral with a heavy heart and a somber expression. He would miss his Queen dearly. Unlike many monarchs, she had always treated him as his own person—not just a barometer of the national mood.

Her children had big shoes to fill and England doubted that they were equal to the task. Her eldest child—newly crowned King Richard IV—was a weak-chinned and weak-willed man. He fancied himself a diplomat, but he shifted positions as easily as a weather vane. His approach to negotiations was to agree with everyone and adopt the position of whoever had spoken to him last. His second wife, Lucille, didn’t bother with politics; she preferred expensive clothes and jewelry. Beside her stood her two daughters, Gertrude and Henrietta, both nearly as vain as their mother. The only one that England actually liked was Eleanor, the King’s only child with his first wife. She was thoughtful and kind, and spent as much time as possible with her handsome, commoner husband and two young children in a castle far, far away.

Of course, it would be hypocritical of England to judge the royal family too harshly. He and his brothers were not a shining example of familial harmony. Scotland stood nearby in his Black Watch kilt, while Wales gave him the side-eye for wearing a kilt to a funeral. Meanwhile, Northern Ireland had spaced himself just far enough away to signal his distance from his brothers. A few other nations were sprinkled in attendance, though not America as far as England could see. (Not that he was looking.)

England stood numbly as he listened to the eulogies for his longest serving Queen. It was hard to capture such a full life into a short speech, but many tried. The words barely pierced England’s thoughts through his fog of sadness and loss. The words just droned on for what felt like hours. In the depths of grief, he didn’t even notice the service had ended until Wales gently touched his arm and led him to the quiet courtyard next to the refectory.

The four national personifications of the United Kingdom gathered in a silent circle beneath the cloudy sky. A monarch represented a nation, and so they honored her as one of their own with the ancient prayer they had recited for a thousand years. Each spoke in his own native tongue. It was one of the few pieces of Old English that England still remembered; a small, unbroken tie to the land of his childhood.

And with that, their task was done. England retreated to the corner of the courtyard. He avoided his brothers even at the best of times, and the obedience potion gave him even more reason to be concerned. If any of the three learned of his magical misfortune… the results would be catastrophic.

As much as England wanted to flee to a quiet space where he could be alone with his thoughts, tradition compelled him to stay in the courtyard and accept the condolences from the other national personifications in attendance at the funeral.

Prussia was the first to find him. Looking unusually somber, he patted England’s shoulder and made him a friendly offer. “Anytime you need a drinking buddy…”

England nodded. He appreciated the sentiment, even if he had no intention of another drinking night with Prussia. Not after what happened last time.

Germany and Italy were next. “My deepest condolences for your loss,” Germany said stiffly, while Italy hung on to his arm and sobbed. “Sorry, he’s very emotional at funerals,” Germany apologized as he led the crying Italian away.

The other nations were a blur of somber condolences and sympathetic glances. Belgium gave him a hug. Japan recited a poem. Even France managed to say something calm and appropriate. After most of the other nations had left, the Commonwealth nations gathered together in a group and shared their favorite memories. Australia looked completely different in his dark suit, compared to his usual outback wear. He fondly reminisced about her first visit—the one that made her the first monarch to set foot on Australian soil. As they listened, Canada sniffled and hugged New Zealand.

It was only when the Commonwealth dispersed that England finally caught sight of America, hanging back along the edges and staying unusually quiet. Not noticing England’s attention, the younger nation walked over to his twin and wrapped his arm around Canada’s shoulder. They spoke softly for a few moments, before Canada nudged America and gestured in England’s direction. America glanced up and they locked gazes.

England tried to hide his surprise. He hadn’t seen America during the ceremony, which meant that America wasn’t attending as an official representative. Had he come just to support his brother, or was there another reason? England continued staring awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Their last conversation by text had ended on a very strange note.

“Hey.” America took a deep breath and closed the distance between them. He looked like he was debating whether or not to give England a hug, but he decided against it. “I’ll never forget that time we saw _Oklahoma!_ with her. She had good taste in musicals,” he reminisced with a fond smile.

“You mean she liked _your_ musicals,” England replied in a flat tone with a somber expression. He wanted it to be snappier, like their normal conversations, but Mr. Keller’s command to ‘be serious’ was stopping him from bickering properly.

America gave England a somewhat worried look. “You feeling okay?”

“Of course not. This is a funeral,” England reminded him. He felt wretched, like he might fall apart at any minute; not that he would ever tell anyone, least of all America. Tears prickled at the edges of his eyes and he hurriedly blinked them away.

Surprising them both, America leaned in for a hug. He wrapped his longer arms around England and patted him on the back. England awkwardly reached his arms around America. The hug was warm and comfortable, certainly not as bone-crushing as the few spontaneous victory hugs they had shared during World War II. Other than that, England didn’t have much to compare it to. America had hugged him all the time as a child, but as an adult, he rarely hugged anyone other than his twin.

A few seconds later, as America pulled away, England half expected him to say ‘no homo.’ Instead he gave England a pat on the shoulder and yet another command that was probably meant as friendly advice. “Don’t keep it all bottled up.”

Fighting against the compulsion, England managed to hold it together long enough for Canada and America to leave the courtyard. When he was finally alone, he hid out of view behind a pillar and sobbed his heart out.

He was never going to see her again. They would never talk about musicals or corgis or the many fascinating places both had visited. She had seen so much change over her lifetime that she was one of the few people he felt understood his position of watching the country always evolve beneath his feet. God, he was going to miss her.

* * *

Later that afternoon, once England had a chance to dry his tears, he returned to Buckingham Palace for his first official meeting with his new King and Queen. This would be their chance to shape his position during their reign. He hoped they had given his talents full consideration, but he somehow doubted it.

The entire Palace had a quiet, somber mood. Every servant wore a black armband. England gave each one a sympathetic nod as he made his way up the Grand Staircase.

Despite the dark mood, the White Drawing Room was still as gorgeous as ever. The ornate gilded ceiling and magnificent chandelier sparkled, while the windows showcased lovely views of the garden. England spotted the King and Queen sitting on sofas upholstered in golden silk next to the fireplace. He gave the black-clad King and Queen a bow and they gestured that he could join them.

“My deepest condolences,” England said gravely as he sat across from them.

“Thank you.” The King stiffly nodded in return.

“Our condolences to you as well,” the Queen graciously replied as she rested her hands in her lap. “We know how much you cared for her.”

England’s throat tightened. He missed her so much. It was then that he noticed that her dogs—normally allowed in any room of the palace—were nowhere to be seen. Her pets had joined them for every conversation, playfully rubbing against ankles and making them both smile. “It seems so quiet without her corgis underfoot,” he remarked.

The Queen smiled. “Yes, the Houndsmaster is looking for new homes. I’ve heard many families are eager to make a generous donation for the privilege.”

“You’re auctioning them off to the highest bidder?” England asked in shock.

She looked offended. “Oh no, the publicity would be terrible. Technically, these are all donations from people who understand the immense value of dogs with a royal pedigree.”

Aghast at her suggestion, England looked to the King for support and found none.

“We couldn’t keep them. They scare Morgaine,” the Queen added. Hearing its name, a fluffy white cat jumped onto the sofa next to the middle-aged woman. She reached over and gently stroked the cat’s fine fur a few times and then turned her attention back to England. “Enough about corgis. It’s _your_ position we want to discuss.”

“I’m not interested in historical trivia,” the King said, wrinkling his nose.

“Nor am I,” his wife added. “Our sole purpose is to project an aura of a more elegant time. Nostalgia is the best way to maintain the monarchy. We must be all style and no substance.”

“I see.” England blinked. It was clear his position would be undergoing a significant shift. “You want me to be more decorative?”

“In time. Our primary concern is the budget. People looked the other way for a very popular Queen, but they will search for any excuse to pounce on us and accuse us of frivolous expenses.”

“I’m not an accountant,” England replied, unsure what either one expected from him. “I’m not sure I can help you with budget cuts.”

“Oh, I think you can,” the Queen said confidently. “Beginning with Mr. Keller. Does he do anything of importance?”

England raised an eyebrow. He was still worried about his job duties, but this was a step in the right direction. “Not as far as I’m aware.”

“Good. We’ll inform him that his services are no longer required.” That was the first piece of cheerful news England had received in the past week. His joy was crushed a second later when she added, “You won’t be needing an assistant either.”

“What? The Crown doesn’t pay Howard’s salary. I do!” England protested.

The Queen looked at him in surprise. “You have your own personal funds?”

“Yes,” England replied, before clamping his mouth shut. His stomach clenched around a dark pit of fear. With the obedience potion still in effect, he had already said too much.

“I see.” The Queen gave him a calculating look, like he was a well-bred corgi being measured for his value at auction. She seemed pleased, and that didn’t bode well for him. “Well, you won’t be needing him. I want you to start working here in the palace.”

“Working on what?”

“Cleaning, organizing, polishing vases, whatever needs to be done.”

“You want me to be a glorified servant?” England jumped to his feet in anger. He tried to clamp his feelings into a small, repressed ball of emotion, but America’s command kept him from bottling it up inside. “I fought in the Battle of Agincourt! I was a privateer for a decade in the West Indies! I won’t be your page boy!”

“I am your Queen and you will do as I command,” she snapped, elegant hands tightening into fists in her lap. “Now sit down and shut up.”

England’s butt slammed backwards onto the sofa against his will. His mouth snapped shut so hard his jaw hurt. His heart pounded with anger and fear. From the look of glee in the Queen’s eye, he knew he was royally screwed.

“Of course,” she murmured to herself in sudden understanding. “You are England and I am your Queen. You have to obey our commands.”

The King scrunched his forehead in confusion. “How strange. I wonder why mother never mentioned that?”

“She was foolishly sentimental,” the middle-aged woman said dismissively. “England, we will discuss liquidating your assets for the good of the royal purse and then I will prepare a work schedule for you.” She gave England the cruelest smile he had ever seen. “There’s nothing like hard work to take your mind off your grief.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor England. He's going to suffer so much before this story is over.
> 
> By the way, if anyone has a good idea for what to call 'Cinderiggy' now would be a great time to share it :D


	5. Chapter 5

England’s skin crawled as he stood in his own bedroom and watched Queen Lucille and her two teenage daughters paw over his personal belongings. They’d left his extensive collection of antique furniture, oil paintings, and first-edition novels to the professional appraisers. No, it was his hoard of jewellery (most of it pirated) that fascinated the Queen and her two spoiled brats.

Beautiful emeralds, diamonds, and more were spread out across his bedroom floor. Rings, bracelets, and a necklace or two were enough to make the princesses coo.

“Ooh, Mother, look at this one!” Gertrude exclaimed, lifting up a gaudy string of cheap amethysts that England had purchased only because of the obedience potion and a televised commercial ordering him to ‘Buy now!’.

The Queen wrinkled her nose at them. “Darling, try to find something a little nicer. Those gemstones are much too tacky for a princess.” She glanced over her shoulder at England as she sneered at his taste.

England silently fumed. He wanted to punch her in the face, but she wasn’t stupid. As soon as she realized her power, she’d given England a slew of commands that limited his ability to fight back. Don’t try to escape. Don’t tell anyone about her orders. Don’t try to hurt her or anyone else. Don’t steal. Don’t damage any objects. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

But there were only so many situations she could imagine and England angrily tried to find a loophole in any of her commands. He glanced at the younger, red-headed princess and saw immediately how much she craved validation and affection. If he was stuck with the terrible royal family, he needed to cultivate potential allies where he could. “Princess Gertrude, I think those amethysts look stunning on you,” he said in a honeyed voice.

“Really?” The teenager beamed, showing off her large horse-like teeth.

The Queen glared at England, but said nothing more when Gertrude slipped the jewellery into her purse. As he suspected, she wasn’t going to order him to stop complimenting her daughters, no matter how insincere his compliments were.

The elder daughter brushed her dark hair back and held up an elegant sapphire-and-silver pendant and matching rings. “What do you think of these, Mother?” she asked sweetly.

“Wonderful choice, dear!” Queen Lucille nodded approvingly. Henrietta stuck out her tongue at Gertrude. While the girls bickered over the rings, the Queen selected some gold and diamond items for herself. She tossed the rest into a box to be appraised and sold. Heels clacking on the wooden floor, she walked over the armoire and studied England’s eclectic selection of clothing with a discerning eye. She picked out a few outfits that would be ‘appropriate’ for his work at the palace, then tossed the others aside.

It wasn’t until she began looking through his belongings on the top shelf of the armoire that England felt a cold pit of fear in his stomach. His favorite photos were on those shelves, along with personal letters and (he hated to admit) more than a few erotic novels.

The Queen arched an eyebrow as she glanced through them and quickly hid them from her daughters’ view. “How interesting…” she murmured to herself as she gave England another appraising glance. Her venomous smile told England everything he needed to know. Not only did she have the power to command him, she also had powerful blackmail material even if he ever managed to escape.

 “Go to hell you godd—” he cursed.

“Don’t swear,” she ordered.

He tried again. “Go to Frell you dogga—”

“Don’t talk unless commanded,” the Queen hissed.

England’s jaw snapped shut. He scowled and glared.

“Mother… is he supposed to be like that?” Gertrude asked, tilting her head in confusion.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” her mother reassured her. “Acquainting oneself with a country is like breaking a horse. He needs to know that the one who reigns is the one who holds the reins.” She strode forward and jabbed England’s chest with her finger. “I promise you this, England. The harder you make this on me, the harder I will make it on you.”

England glared back with every ounce of fury in his soul. He swore to himself then and there that he would never stop fighting. But, trapped in livid silence, there was nothing else he could do as the three ladies meandered throughout his house and treated his personal property like goods at a department store. They pillaged trinkets from his office, including precious gifts from other countries. The ivory Chinese puzzle ball fascinated Henrietta, while her younger sister grabbed the glass unicorn figurine that America had given him for his birthday several years earlier. America probably meant it as a joke, but England treasured the lovely statue and he resented watching Gertrude smudge her grubby fingers on it.

Fortunately, the library was of no interest to them, so at least England didn’t have to watch them damage the bindings of his most prized possessions. He hated to think what would happen after they were sold. His only consolation was that whoever was willing to bid the highest price was probably someone who cared about books.

The Queen and the two princesses skipped the attic, though England was sure that others would rummage through his storage and steal it from him soon enough. Most of his belongings were valuable antiques, and even if they weren’t, some people were willing to pay a hefty premium for an item that England himself had owned. He hoped that they had a heart attack listening to his priceless collection of vinyl records from the golden age of British punk.

The only part of the house that was safe from the Queen’s clutches was the basement. After America had barged downstairs one too many times and nearly broken a potion that would have turned both of them into cats, England had set up wards to prevent others from entering the area without his permission. To anyone but England, the door to the basement appeared to be nothing more than a plain wooden wall. To his immense relief, Queen Lucille and her two daughters swanned past the basement door without a second glance. They turned up their noses at the kitchen and the two daughters made a beeline for England’s collection of DVDs in the living room. He was a little embarrassed for them to see how many romantic comedies he owned, but at least his porn collection was safely hidden in the basement (another lesson learned after a disastrous visit with America).

The girls giggled over his ‘hokey’ old musicals like Camelot, Kiss Me Kate, and The Slipper and the Rose. They turned up their noses at the James Bond collection because Sean Connery was ‘so old.’ But England had the last laugh. Although the Queen’s command stopped him from _speaking_ , it didn’t stop him from chuckling and then laughing like a hyena.

The three women turned to look at him like he had gone insane as he stood there and cackled evilly. He enjoyed the disturbed looks on their faces.

“Why are you laughing?” Henrietta demanded. “Mother, make him tell me why he’s laughing!”

The Queen sighed. “England, explain why you’re laughing.”

He looked each of them straight in the eye. “Because one hundred years from now you will all be dead, and I will still be England.”

For a second, she looked at him, really looked at him. Not as a servant or an underling, but as a strange human-shaped creature who wasn’t quite as human as he seemed. It reminded him of the expressions of fear his earliest monarchs had bestowed upon him after he survived what should have been fatal wounds on the battlefield. Her cool exterior wavered for a second, before she took a deep breath and reclaimed her calm. “Be that as it may, right now I am still your Queen.” She snapped her fingers and gave England a pleased smile, like she had just figured out the solution to a particularly complicated problem. “Stop fighting me,” she commanded.

England’s glare disappeared as his will to fight melted away. Despite all his anger, he couldn’t stop the obedience potion from turning him into an obedient servant filled with numb grief.

* * *

Queen Lucille cared deeply about appearances, and that meant she couldn’t let the world know she had turned her national personification into a personal slave. So “England” went into a period of deep mourning, and “Arthur Eller” joined the palace as its newest servant.

With dyed brown hair and a pair of fake spectacles, he walked through Buckingham Palace without a second glance from the other servants. To them, he was just another quiet cog in a very well-oiled machine. A few made friendly overtures, but England couldn’t reciprocate. Trapped in silence, he mostly minded his own business and tried not to dwell on the depressing circumstances that had turned a former empire into just another footman.

‘Arthur’ was placed in charge of polishing the antique wooden furniture, cleaning the vases, and dusting the frames of valuable oil paintings. The Queen explained that she put him in charge of the antiques because he was one himself. England performed his work with quiet competence; not because he wanted to, but because he had been ordered to do a good job. He quickly grew to resent the long, grueling days.

Each day, England woke before dawn, dressed quickly, and climbed down four flights of steps from his tiny attic bedroom in the servant’s quarters. After eating his breakfast in silence, he gathered his supplies and was ready to start working at 5am. He wiped the fragile, valuable vases with care and climbed down on his hands and knees to polish every inch of the palace’s old, well-preserved wooden furniture. The largest, grandest rooms took hours to finish and left him sweating and exhausted. Lunch was a short, frenzied affair, before he was right back to work in the next set of rooms. By the end of the day, England was barely able to keep his eyes open during the servant’s late dinner and he struggled to climb the four flights of stairs to his tiny bedroom. He collapsed onto the hard mattress and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the thread-bare pillow. His six hours of sleep were his only break from the cruel monotony of his chores. But they passed by in the blink of an eye, and he was forced to crawl out of bed and restart the arduous cycle.

It took England a month to finish his back-breaking tasks in all 387 rooms with antique furniture or paintings. And by the time he finished, he had to start all over again, repeating his polishing, dusting, and cleaning in every single room.

His mood of general depression matched the low morale of the staff. He heard frequent grumblings about the Queen’s efforts to ‘streamline’ the work force and ‘create efficiencies.’ What it meant was that 100 of the 500 staff were fired and the rest of the servants had to do 25% more work each while still being paid the same, paltry wages. The other servants complained about the long hours, small servant’s quarters, and poor pay, but at least they were getting paid and had the opportunity to leave.

As awful as it was, England reminded himself that he had endured far, far worse. Unlike the wet, miserable trenches of Marne, here he had a dry place to sleep and plenty of food. Unlike the nightly terror of the Blitz, here he could sleep through the night without sirens wailing and he didn’t have to ration every ounce of sugar and tea. As bad as life was for him personally, his nation was doing fine, though still mourning the death of the beloved Queen. He would survive. Like dysentery or an exhausting ocean voyage in rough seas, this too would pass.

Late winter turned into early spring and England developed new calluses on his hands and knees. He had always been in excellent shape, but the muscles for wielding a rapier weren’t the same ones used to remove a water stain from a table.

Throughout it all, he dreamed of his escape. He couldn’t take any actions to fight back, but he fantasized about slipping away and fleeing into the night. Unfortunately, trapped within the four walls of the palace, he didn’t even have an opportunity to see his beloved fairies. They would have helped him if they could, but even the palace gardens weren’t enough to tempt them into the center of busy, crowded London.

One day as he was polishing the armchairs and settees in the Bow Room—a waiting chamber for those seeking an audience with the King—England glanced up at a newly hung painting and felt his throat tighten. It was a family portrait from three decades earlier, made at the time of Princess Eleanor’s christening. His eyes were drawn to his former Queen’s smiling face. Her eyes shone with quiet happiness at the birth of her eldest grandchild.

England wanted to stare at her warm face for hours, but he could only spare a few moments to look at her before his geas required him to return to his chores.

He was on his knees, wiping down the undersides of the plush, red velvet chairs as two government officials walked out of the King’s audience chamber. England had met both of them before to discuss various financial issues, but neither one spared him a second glance this time. Putting on a servant’s uniform was almost like an invisibility cloak.

King Richard stepped out of the room a few moments later and paused in front of the newly installed portrait. He gazed at it somberly while England continued cleaning. Although England couldn’t speak or stop his cleaning, he did manage to catch the King’s attention by moving over to polish a vase beneath the painting. “Must you clean the…” the King started to say before his annoyed look was replaced with a flash of recognition. He stared in surprise at England’s brown hair and fake spectacles. “Oh.”

England pointedly raised his eyebrows and gestured toward his cleaning supplies, hoping to convey that yes, he _did_ have to clean the room and all of its priceless antique furniture. He was sure that King Richard was vaguely aware of his wife’s decision to force England into a life of servitude and menial drudgery, but he wanted to make the man confront the uncomfortable consequences in person. To see the beads of sweat on England’s brow and the smudges of dirt on his face.

“Right.” The King cleared his throat and went back to staring at the painting of his mother. “You know, it would have been her birthday today,” he remarked.

The statement hit England like a punch in the gut. He’d lost track of the days of the week. Doing the math, he realized that the King was right. Months and weeks had slipped away from him one chore at a time, but he knew from the preparations to open the State Rooms for tour groups that it was almost May. The first birthday without her. If she were still alive, they would have enjoyed a few slices of cake together in the garden. She would have insisted that it was his birthday cake too, given that they traditionally celebrated his birthday a few days later during the Feast of St. George. But instead of eating cake, he was trapped in the Bow Room cleaning out a thin layer of dust from inside antique Chinese vases.

Oblivious to England’s bittersweet memories, the King sighed again. “It’s a lovely picture of Mother, but they’ll have to take it down.” At England’s quizzical look he explained, “Lucille hates to see any pictures of Evelyn around.”

England rolled his eyes, though he was unsurprised at the Queen’s jealousy. For someone who cared so much about popularity, it had to be galling to always come in second best. Especially when she was smart enough to know that a woman who entered the public eye in her forties would never have the same level of public admiration as a beautiful woman who married a prince in her twenties and tragically passed away a decade later. It was impossible to compete against an idealized vision of a princess, though the Queen seemed determined to try.

“The people will never love me the way they loved her,” the King said, as if he were following England’s line of thought. He gave the national personification a doleful look. “The palace budget is much leaner now thanks to Lucille’s efficiencies, and they’re still displeased!”

Unable to speak, England noted sardonically to himself that it was easy to save money when you didn’t pay your staff. He huffed and moved on to the next vase.

The King followed him. “Do you know why they don’t like me?” he asked plaintively, sounding a bit like the spoiled child prince England had played with many decades earlier.

Pausing for a second, England nodded.

“Explain it to me,” King Richard curtly demanded.

Freed from his chore by the new command, England set down the cleaning rag and turned to face the King. He gave him a long, measuring look, staying silent long enough for the King to squirm uncomfortably and drop his head.

“The prob…,” England rasped, his voice hoarse from months of disuse. He coughed, cleared his throat, and tried again. “The problem is that you’re trying too hard to be popular. It shows a lack of confidence in yourself and your position. Your mother didn’t stir up controversy, but she also didn’t let popular opinion dictate her actions. She was steadfast.” England’s throat tightened as he remembered her kind, firm voice. After months alone with his sorrow, it felt good to talk about her again. His memories felt like rain quenching the dusty soil.

The King nodded hesitantly. “So how do I do that?”

England shook his head and gestured toward his throat. He couldn’t speak unless commanded, and a question wasn’t a command.

“A speech!” The King’s eyes lit up. “You’re right. I should give a speech!” He turned and hurried back into his audience chambers as England gave him a sour expression. Sighing to himself, England returned to his endless chores.

* * *

St. George’s Day was a hectic day at the palace. England was fortunately spared from having to deal with all the guests. Officially, 'Arthur' was put on backdoor duties because he was mute. Unofficially, the Queen surely realized the danger that someone might recognize him despite the brown hair and spectacles.

As understaffed as they were, even England was put to work in the kitchen. He helped a pastry chef named Mandy and her assistants make fairy cakes. Following her directions, he frosted and iced them perfectly. Although he hated the idea of any other nation learning about his magical mishap, England did wish they could see his pastries and be amazed. America would stop insulting him if he could put these scrumptious morsels into his mouth.

In between batches, they heard snippets from the other servants about the event and the King’s speech. “As monotonous and boring as the man himself,” seemed to be the general consensus. The only amusing part was the story about Gertrude giving bits of cake to Morgaine beneath the table, leading the cat to vomit on the Italian Ambassador’s very expensive shoes.

Everyone agreed that it would have been much better if the cat had aimed for the Queen’s shoes instead. Somehow, England wasn’t surprised to see that the mix for her cake received several generous dollops of spit in the batter. He couldn’t fight her himself, but he smiled in pleasure to see others fighting back. It was the best birthday present he could ask for.

At the end of a very long day, after all of the guests had left and all of the dishes were clean, Mandy pulled out a lemon drizzle cake and set it on the flour-dusted counter. “This one didn’t rise as much as I wanted, so I saved it for us,” she told England and her assistants. Then she winked at England. “A little bird told me it was your birthday, Arthur.”  

He blinked in surprise as Mandy and the assistants started singing him the happy birthday song. In all his years, England had never celebrated his birthday in the kitchens with the servants. And he had certainly never eaten a cake he himself had helped bake. After months of drudgery and depression, the cheerful camaraderie felt like a warm balm for his soul. He might have lost his possessions and his prestige, but he wasn’t alone. He was always surrounded by his countrymen and women, even if they didn’t know it. England’s throat tightened with emotion. When they finished singing, he smiled in embarrassment and mouthed ‘thank you.’

“Eat!” Mandy encouraged. Unable to resist the command, England grabbed a slice with his hand and shoved it into his mouth. She laughed, interpreting his action as enthusiasm and hunger. “Eat as much as you want!” she added with a bright smile. England breathed a sigh of relief and ate the next slice more sedately with a fork. It was delicious. Almost as delicious as the thought that one way or another, he would eventually find a way to break free.


	6. Chapter 6

After pitching in as a kitchen’s helper for St. George’s Feast, England found himself welcomed to join the other kitchen servants during meals. He nodded along politely to the conversation at breakfast and savored the slightly higher quality food that the kitchen workers saved for themselves.

He slathered his perfectly toasted bread with extra jam and listened to the gossip that dominated conversation during mealtimes. The others spoke freely in front of him. Why not? It was common knowledge that Arthur Eller was mute and could therefore be trusted not to repeat anything he had heard. As England silently ate his breakfast, he listened with half an ear to the gossip about the palace guards who drank on the job and the pages who had sex in the closets. But the juiciest gossip was the shocking number of resignations from lady’s maids who were assigned to serve the two princesses. None had lasted longer than a week. Some hadn’t even stayed one day.

“…but the final nail in the coffin was when Princess Gertrude accused her of shrinking all her dresses in the laundry,” the woman to England’s right finished explaining.

“I’m sure those chocolate cakes she eats at midnight had nothing to do with it,” the lad who handled the milk deliveries snarked.

“Poor Fatima,” another added.

“At least she didn’t have hot tea dumped on her like Brooke.”

“What a waste of tea.”

“Mr. Eller.”

“I hear they gave her a nice check to keep her quiet,” the woman on England’s right whispered as a hush fell over the servant’s dining room.

“ _Mr. Eller_.”

It wasn’t until Mandy elbowed him that England remembered _he_ was supposed to be Mr. Eller. He looked up mid-bite to find an upper servant staring at him while everyone else watched.

“Come with me,” the man commanded. England jerked up out of his chair and followed unwillingly on the man’s heels. He grit his teeth, annoyed that he had been forced to leave behind the last bites of his toast and half a mug of tea.

As they continued up staircases and along grand hallways, England’s seething resentment turned into concern. They were heading toward the royal family’s bedrooms, and that meant the Queen had something planned for him. He knew, with certainty that went to the very marrow of his bones, that he wasn’t going to like it.

Male servants were barred from entering the Queen’s bedroom. Instead, the servant led him to a small study near her chambers. England was ushered inside as the servant announced, “Mr. Eller, your majesty,” and took a deep bow.

As they entered, Queen Lucille swiveled around in her desk chair and arched an elegant eyebrow. England stood completely still and stared right back at her.

“Bow!” the upper servant hissed at England.

England rolled his eyes and dipped his head the tiniest fraction while maintaining insolent eye contact with the Queen. She kept a neutral expression and dismissed the other servant. Once he was gone, the Queen chuckled. “You are a feisty one, aren’t you? No wonder we conquered so much of the globe.”

Turning his forced silence into an insult, England studiously ignored her and instead looked around the room. The oak paneling and bookshelves reminded him of his own office. He gazed forlornly at the handsome leather volumes in mint condition that lined the bookshelves. Was that a First Edition Encyclopedia Britannica? It looked like it had never been opened! What a pity to let so many books go to waste. The volumes in his office were well cared for, but had started to show their age after decades of use. Unlike his books, _these_ books were nothing more than unread props.

“Look at me,” Queen Lucille snapped, forcing his eyes back to her face. “I didn’t have you brought up here so you could disrespect me.”

England gave her an unimpressed look. Although he couldn’t fight her, he could still annoy, irritate, vex, pique, and nettle her. Even when forced to bow physically, he would never bow in spirit.

“You’re almost more trouble than you’re worth,” she complained as she returned to sorting through her mail. “Other countries keep trying to contact you. One even sent his ambassador to deliver a note.”

She waved a cream-colored envelope with an address written in elegant copperplate script in front of his face. England frowned as he tried to decipher the return address, but the Queen returned the envelope to the pile before he could finish reading. Who was trying so hard to reach him? Certainly it wasn’t America. The handwriting was far too nice. Nor would America send him ‘snail mail.’ Or even care that England had disappeared from the face of the Earth.

Knowing it was a male personification didn’t narrow down the options. England wondered whether it was his brothers and then decided it would be worse becoming _their_ servant. He knew with absolute certainly that if any of the three found out about the obedience potion, they would enjoy abusing those powers to the hilt.

“I wanted more help in the palace, but Scotland was very rude,” the Queen continued, oddly following England’s line of thought. “All this Scottish Independence nonsense has made him less obedient than he ought to be.” She sighed. “And Wales only speaks gibberish.”

For once, the command of silence lined up with England’s wishes. He knew perfectly well that Wales could speak languages other than Welsh. Still, he had no desire to share that information with his nasty monarch.

“But enough of that,” she said, flicking her wrist. “I have a new task for you. I’m sending Gertie and Hetty to a six-week finishing course in Switzerland. Technically they’re not allowed to bring servants, but I’ve discovered a loophole.” She smirked. “They agreed to let me send a bodyguard, and I have one who will also obey all of their commands.”

England felt his stomach sink. Just when he thought there was no way his life could get any worse, the Queen found a way to twist the knife a little deeper. Instead of manual labor in Buckingham Palace, he would be forced to perform menial tasks for two spoiled brats for six weeks. Suddenly, the trenches of Marne didn’t look so bad by comparison.

Smiling in triumph, the Queen gave him his final orders before sending him to pack for the princesses: “Protect them with your life, obey them as you would me, and don’t even think about running away.”

* * *

On the whole, England quickly decided he would rather be cleaning toilets. The two princesses couldn’t pick the right clothes to bring, so they settled on bringing _everything_. He, of course, was the one forced to haul all four trunks up the narrow stairs to the opulent bedrooms at the Institut Villa Pierrefeu.

It was an elegant villa overlooking the deep blue waters of Lake Geneva, where young women from around the world learned the intricacies of international etiquette and decorum. Under any other circumstances, England would have been grateful that such a place still existed. The world could use more manners. Unfortunately, he was stuck with two boors who were unlikely to benefit much from their lessons.

During classes, England watched silently from the sidelines and played the role of the cautious bodyguard. Despite its appeal to the wealthy, the program made an effort to be egalitarian. Everyone referred to each other by first name to allow them to learn on the same footing, without concern for titles or bloodlines. The teachers also required their students to rotate through the service role in order to better appreciate what their employees did for them. The hope was that it would make them better managers and perhaps more empathetic employers.

The effort was clearly wasted on Gertrude and Henrietta. Not only were they bad at being waitstaff, they had also been taught their entire lives to look down on servants. More thoughtful teenagers might have seen the error of their ways, but the two princesses just took their frustration out on England.

As soon as they were alone in the princesses’ two-bedroom suite, England was compelled to deal with every petty chore the teenagers were too lazy to do. He did laundry, he ironed, he even fetched food and drink when they wanted a midnight snack from the kitchens. And he had to do all of it in secret because students weren’t allowed to have servants at school. Skulking the shadows to do laundry was an embarrassing use of spy skills he had honed over centuries.

After hours of chores, England curled up on a too-small love seat near the fireplace in the sitting room and fell into an exhausted sleep. But the relentless demands began again as soon as the princesses woke up in the morning.

“Bring me my comb,” Henrietta ordered, pointing to an ivory comb on her bedside table within easy arm’s reach.

England mimicked combing his leg hair and set the comb next to her feet.

“How dare you!” With a furious glare, she picked up the comb and hurled it at England.

Nimbly dodging out of the way, he laughed to himself before Gertrude’s loud voice forced him into the enjoining bedroom.

“Fetch me a hat!” she demanded. He grabbed a hideous green one with purple feathers and an elaborate gold bow. To his surprise, Gertrude cooed in delight. “Ooh, that’s my favorite.” She put it on and smiled. “Do you think it makes me look pretty?”

England stared fixedly at the ridiculous hat and wondered if it was worth his dignity to appeal to Gertrude’s good side. Still undecided, he was actually grateful for the distraction when Henrietta screeched at him to come make her a cup of tea. Since she hadn’t given him any commands about the _quality_ of the tea, he added barely any leaves and poured a few salt packets into the cup instead of sugar. Henrietta took a sip and spit it out on the bedsheets. Even though he would be the one forced to wash the sheets later, it was worth it to see her expression of absolute fury.

By that point the girls were already late for class, but that didn’t stop them from sniping at each other while England followed them into the hallway like a silent shadow.

“Must you wear a hat everywhere?” Henrietta groused.

Gertrude pouted. “Mrs. McKellan says that a lady can wear a hat wherever she wants.”

“Can doesn’t mean _should_.”

“You sound like mother.”

Henrietta smiled. “Good.”

Even though he was still forced to follow them around like a bodyguard, England received slight consolation for the miserable treatment he was forced to endure as he watched the two princesses suffer through their lessons. It was particularly enjoyable seeing them attempt to eat an orange using a fork and knife.

“You must section the orange carefully,” the instructor explained, demonstrating the process at the head of the table. She turned the orange gently and sliced off the peel one section at a time. “If you remove the peel properly, it will look like flower petals and leave behind a perfect orange ready for eating.”

She and England both watched as the young women attempted to replicate the process.

“I should hear no sound coming from your cutlery or plates,” the instructor added, the sound of clinking that had filled the formal dining room quickly quieted. “And do remember to continue making polite conversation with your neighbor.”

Henrietta, who had never been one for polite conversation, attacked the orange with her knife and succeeded only in squirting citrus juice into her face. In the seat next to her, Gertrude sliced off the top and bottom of her orange. She then made a vertical incision into the orange and used her fingers to pry it open and lay the peel flat. She pulled out the orange slices and started eating it with her fingers.

“Gertrude, you’re supposed to eat with your fork and knife,” the instructor gently tsked.

The younger princess sighed. “But this is easier.”

“Etiquette is not easy,” the instructor primly replied, and she proved it by lecturing them for another three hours on ‘international savoir-faire.’ It wasn’t enough to know one country’s etiquette, after all, they had to learn social and business customs from countries around the world. England thoroughly enjoyed the lecture, even if no one else did.

There was another benefit to finishing school. As much as he hated obeying endless commands, he also found himself with a more relaxed schedule on the weekends. Like most teenagers, the princesses slept in when they weren’t required to attend classes. And that gave England time to work on his magic.

Unlike the buzzing hive of Buckingham Palace, here he had time and space to be alone. Early on a Sunday morning, England took his cup of tea to the villa’s grand, two-story Elizabethan library and scrutinized the shelves, hoping against hope that he would find a grimoire or a magical tome. But other than dust motes and a few children’s books, he found nothing remotely magical. The largest portion of the library was dedicated to romance novels, mostly where a beautiful lady fell in love with her handsome knight or a kind-hearted stable boy or some other commoner with a firm chest, strong arms, and a quivering member.

Rolling his eyes at the terrible reading material, England sat down on a comfortable armchair by the fireplace and gazed forlornly into his tea cup. His reflection stared back at him. His expression turned thoughtful and a glimmer of an idea began to form in his head. Perhaps he didn't need a spellbook. Tea was always a good medium for divination.

Closing his eyes, England focused his will on the tea cup. With a simple incantation, he started his divination: “Mirror, mirror in my tea, show me what will set me free.”

As England opened his eyes, he was disappointed to see that nothing had changed. He still saw nothing other than his own reflection in the black tea.

He closed his eyes again and squeezed them tight. Perhaps he hadn’t gotten the spell quite right. Trying a new rhyme, he concentrated with all his might. “Mirror, mirror in my tea, show me what I want to see.”

This time, when he opened his eyes, England was greeted with the faint outline of a man packing a suitcase. England leaned so close his nose nearly touched the rim of the cup and squinted as he tried to improve the image quality. His tea cup couldn’t create sound, but with enough willpower he could make it a better image. Little by little, colors began to appear and the image zoomed in on the man’s face. Golden hair. Glasses. Bright eyes and a handsome chin. It was definitely America, despite the uncharacteristically somber expression.

Irritated that his incantation had failed once again, England debated breaking the spell, but curiosity kept him focused on the image. It wouldn’t hurt to know what America was up to. The younger nation glanced down at something as he packed and England concentrated on refocusing the image to show him what America was looking at.

The tea rippled slightly and he that America was holding two ties, one in each hand. One was pure black. The other was blue, with the iconic Superman ‘S’ at the base. America weighed the two ties up and down as he clearly considered which to pack.

From his small mirror in the tea, England watched as America set the ties next to the suitcase and turned to his phone. The younger nation’s finger swiped rapidly across the screen as he texted back and forth with someone. Ignoring a slight qualm of guilt for using his magic to spy, England zoomed in far enough to read the string of messages.

 

 

> **do i rly need a black tie???**
> 
> _No, black tie is the dress code and it’s optional. Bring a dark suit and a normal tie._
> 
> **cool, thanks bro!** **:-)**
> 
> _Normal means no superheroes._
> 
> **how did u… r u hacking my phone???**
> 
> _I just know you too well. Bring a tie England would approve of._
> 
> **boring. think he’ll be there?**
> 
> _He’s usually so diligent about world meetings, but lately… I’m not sure._
> 
> _You should check up on him again._

England’s stomach dropped at the thought of a world meeting coming up that he didn’t know about. In recent decades, they had averaged two or three conferences per year, which meant he was overdue for the next one. The host country handled the invitations, but his were undoubtedly being intercepted by his manipulative monarch. Given her position on valuing style over substance, England was sure she would have thrown it directly into the rubbish bin. Who cared about political positions or diplomacy? The Queen just wanted good press and popular support.

Growling in irritation, England willed the image to pull back for a look at America’s face, but his hands shook in anger. The tea sloshed over the cup and onto his hand, breaking the spell.

England had put up with a lot from his royalty over the years, but he wasn’t going to let her stop him from doing his _real_ job. He had to find out where the world meeting was and then he had to… his mind blanked. He shook his head in frustration.

The nameless thought gnawed at his mind for the rest of the day and into the evening. America never packed more than a few hours before he left for the airport and that meant he was taking a Sunday flight to arrive in time for a Monday meeting. England watched the hours tick away and feared what the other nations would say if he showed up to a world meeting _late_. America would never let him live it down.

With his reputation for timeliness on the line, England realized that his only solution was convincing one of the princesses to order him to attend the meeting. Gertrude was the obvious candidate, and it would be easy enough to soften her up with an extra slice of pie. Especially if he spiced it with extra herbs to loosen her tongue.

England had nearly finished his magic in the kitchen when he heard the door creak open behind him. Knowing that the worst thing to do was act guilty if you were caught, he calmly grabbed a fork from the utensil drawer like he had every right to be there.

“What are you doing here?” a matronly looking woman demanded.

Unable to speak, England mouthed words instead.

“What’s that? Speak up!”

“Just grabbing a snack,” he responded, voice raspy from disuse. He smiled happily, thrilled at the ability to talk again. There were so many curse words he had kept bottled inside of him, just waiting to spill out.

“What?” she demanded again.

“A snack!” he replied loudly.

She squinted her eyes suspiciously. “That’s not a pastry fork.”

“Oh, for fork’s sake,” he muttered loudly under his breath, but she wouldn’t let him leave until he found the right fork.

After five wasted minutes in the kitchen, England quietly knocked on Gertrude’s door and was rewarded with a wide smile when she saw the slice of pie. Sitting at the edge of her bed, the younger princess ate the dessert with enthusiasm and sighed happily. “It’s nice to eat something without it being a test. Everyone here gets huffy when I use the wrong fork.”

He nodded sympathetically.

Just that small gesture was enough to open the flood gates. “Eleanor would fit in here,” the teenager explained with a pout. “She always knows the right thing to do and the right thing to say. That’s probably why she’s Father’s favorite. Mother prefers Hettie. She says a girl should be either pretty or clever and I’m neither.”

“You’re pretty clever,” he lied.

“Really?” She beamed, too excited by the flattery to notice that he had started talking again. “Everyone here thinks I'm stupid. There are so many rules and I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be finishing!”

“You’re right," England murmured sympathetically, almost feeling bad for the lonely girl with the cruel mother. "There’s nothing interesting here. Perhaps you’d prefer to see a World Meeting instead?” he suggested. It was a brilliant plan. If the princess traveled to the World Meeting, he would have to go with her to protect her.

She wrinkled her nose. “The ambassador told me about that. It sounds boring. All you do is talk.”

“We also eat and drink afterward,” England added. In fact, most of the ‘diplomacy’ between countries happened after the meeting adjourned for the day.

The teenager shook her head. “I don’t want to eat Italian food. I want to go home.”

So much for that plan. England quickly shifted gears and decided to play on her craving for the taste of home. “You know, whenever I’m homesick, Jaffa cakes always make me feel better,” he suggested subtly.

“I like Jaffa cakes, too,” she agreed.

“It’s a pity they don’t have any here,” he added, a little less subtly.

“Yeah.”

“I would buy you some, but I’ve been ordered to stay,” England explained, wondering if he was going to have to draw her a diagram.

The teenager perked up. “I have a clever idea! Buy some Jaffa cakes and bring them back to me,” she ordered proudly.

England smiled and happily obeyed. He ‘borrowed’ Henrietta’s credit card and walked out of the villa with nothing more than the clothes on his back. He already knew there weren’t any Jaffa cakes in Switzerland, but he could keep walking away from the villa as long as he planned to buy some (eventually) and take them back to Gertrude (eventually). Still grinning to himself, he walked down the hillside to the rail station. Gertrude had given him more than just an escape—she had also provided him with the clue he needed to find the World Meeting. Using the borrowed credit card, he purchased a round-trip ticket on a midnight train to Italy.


	7. Chapter 7

Like most countries, Italy had a favorite place for hosting world meetings. For America, the city was Orlando. He claimed that Disney World was obviously the best place to have world meetings. (Anyone who had ever visited in August was inclined to disagree.) Germany favored Bonn and its historical pedigree. As for Italy… he loved the romantic canals and elegant palaces of Venice.

But England still faced a conundrum when his train pulled into the Santa Lucia railway station during the Monday morning rush hour. Venice was a beautiful city with many fine attractions—and just as many gorgeous hotels. With only an hour left before the usual meeting start time, England had little time and no clue how to find the right hotel. Italy had hosted his fellow nations in a variety of five-star Venetian establishments over the years, from the extremely historical ones with opulent marble bathrooms, to gleaming modern masterpieces. Which would it be this time?

England pondered his options as he crossed a bridge decorated with gargoyles and strode down narrow, ancient alleys that twisted between the canals. He could head to the ritziest part of the city and go from hotel to hotel until he found the right one. Or perhaps it would be best to contact the British Embassy and hope they could help him. He dismissed that thought as quickly as it occurred. He didn’t want the Queen to receive any clue of his whereabouts until after the meeting. It had already been risky enough buying the railway ticket, but Henrietta was unlikely to notice her card missing for at least a few days.

The answer came to him in a flash of brilliance. Or more specifically, a flash of brilliant, golden arches. England’s steps slowed as he approached a McDonald’s. Unlike some of its tacky counterparts in the states, this continental outpost struck a classier tone with green awnings and a surprisingly clean interior.

England stepped inside. He joined the fast-moving line and studied his menu options. When he arrived at the front of the line, he asked the cashier in rusty Italian if there was another McDonald’s in Venice.

“ _No_ ,” the woman responded politely, even as she arched a slight eyebrow at his strange query. What, were you hoping for something better? her eyebrow seemed to ask.

“Fabulous,” England replied with a smile. “ _Un tè e bagel con omelette, per favore_.”

He used dear Henrietta’s card to pay for breakfast. It wasn’t theft. He was just claiming a small portion of the wages the royal family owed him for his unpaid labor.

After a short wait, England grabbed his coffee and breakfast sandwich and claimed a table in the corner with a good view of the entrance. He sipped his tea and nibbled on the breakfast bagel sandwich, feeling very much the spy as he waited for his quarry to appear. England knew America’s habits and preferences as well as the back of his hand. America never attended a world meeting without coffee and he always insisted on visiting the nearest McDonald’s for his caffeine fix instead of trying the delicious local options. Finding America was his ticket to finding the right hotel.

Despite its glamorous reputation, spying entailed long periods of sheer boredom. As he waited, England unobtrusively observed the other diners and amused himself by imagining that everyone else in the café was also a spy. There was an American family cleverly pretending to be tourists. Another man posed as an Italian businessman with an unhealthy love of greasy food. And the two teenagers who slipped into the store and started looking around for purses with inattentive owners…

England narrowed his eyes. Those weren’t spies. They were pickpockets.

The two teens moved with calculated practice. The first took a seat at a table within easy reach of a purse hanging from the back of one woman’s chair. The second ordered a coffee. England had seen the ruse before. He knew what came next. The teen with the coffee would drop it on the floor and create a loud distraction while the other slipped his hand into the purse and grabbed the wallet. The one with the stolen wallet would then slip out of the store while everyone else was still focused on the spill.

At least, that’s how the plan would have worked if England hadn’t been watching. He picked up his half-empty cup of tea and walked over to the first thief. He timed it carefully, arriving at the table just as the second thief ‘accidentally’ spilled his coffee on the floor behind him. While others turned to look at the commotion, England kept his gaze focused on the one sitting at the table.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked. Not waiting for a response, he took a seat across from the shocked teen. “I’ve been watching you,” he said softly. “You stole something last week from a young woman. You should know that she’s the daughter of a diplomat and Her Majesty’s Royal service wants it back. We’ve been tracking you ever since,” he lied glibly, giving the teen a stern look honed by centuries of practice.

“ _Non parlo inglese_ ,” the teen responded nervously, gesturing helplessly with his hands.

“Well, that’s a pity. I’d been authorized to pay a thousand pound reward.”

The pickpocket gaped. “A thousand?”

“Not to you, of course.” England smirked. “But I’m glad you do speak English.”

“Uhh…” The teen’s eyes shifted to the exit.

Before the young man could move, England grabbed his wrist and applied firm pressure. “If you run, Interpol will track you. But if you return everything you stole… I could perhaps see that the file disappears.” He smiled. “Up to you, of course.”

“I will return it all!” the teenager promised, nodding furiously. As soon as England let go of his wrist, the young man bolted from the table like his pants were on fire. He nearly slipped in the coffee spill in his headlong race out of McDonald’s. The accomplice glanced over his shoulder at the targeted purses and paled when he caught England giving him a knowing look. Following the other teen, he hurried out the door.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” a familiar voice cried indignantly as the two teenagers barreled out of the store.

Turning toward the entrance, England watched as America joined the line, still oblivious to his presence. Of course America arrived after he had dealt with the bad guys. America was always late to the fight (and everything else for that matter).

America ordered his coffee and did a double-take when he finally spotted England waiting for him at one of the center tables. “Eng—?” he asked, barely catching himself before he blurted out England’s name. He hurried over to England’s table and gave him an overjoyed smile. “You made it!” he exclaimed, oblivious to the effect his booming voice had on the other diners.

“Yes, of course,” England replied matter-of-factly, like it hadn’t required an arduous journey and cunning deceit to make his way to Venice.

America sat down across from him. “So what are you doing here?” he asked, still smiling as he gestured toward their surroundings.

England had known he would be called upon to provide an excuse for his presence in a McDonald’s. Fortunately, he had one ready to go. “Just putting the fear of God into a couple of pickpockets,” he explained, casually sipping his tea. “They seem to think that grab-and-go refers to other people’s belongings.”

“Huh. So that was you,” America concluded, nodding toward the door with newfound respect. “That’s cool.”

England shrugged. “It was nothing.” 

“No, it all makes sense now! We couldn’t figure out where you went, but I told Can—Mattie that there was only one logical solution.” America grinned and paused dramatically. “You sold your house and you’ve been traveling the world in disguise preventing crimes like a superhero!”

England’s jaw dropped. Somehow America had come up with an explanation that was even more ludicrous than the actual truth. Then again, this was a nation who proposed giant robots as a solution to every international problem.

“You don’t need to say anything,” America whispered as he leaned across the table. “Your secret is safe with me, Britman. I already came up with your theme song! _Na-na-na-na-na-na, Britman_ ,” he hummed to himself.

Uncertain if America was joking or not, England just shrugged. “Great. Well, we should be heading to the meeting or we’re going to be late.”

“Nah, it’s cool. It doesn’t start ‘til ten.”

“Ten o’clock?” England asked dubiously. The meetings always started at nine.

“It’s not like we’re gonna get much work done anyway,” said the main reason they never accomplished much during world meetings.

“I could have sworn it was nine,” England bluffed, certain that America had mixed up the start time.

America frowned and dug around in his pocket. He pulled out a wrinkled, cream-colored invitation and handed it to England. The expensive paper with lovely handwriting looked familiar, and completely unlike any world meeting invitation England had ever seen before. It took a second for him to make sense of the words he was reading.

The world meeting started at nine am, as usual, followed by Italy and Germany’s engagement dinner party. Dress code: black tie optional.

England blinked and tried to contain his surprise. This wasn’t a real meeting. It was an excuse for nations to gather and toast Italy and Germany’s long-expected engagement. He felt vaguely relieved. At least no one would notice that he hadn’t prepared any notes or presentations for the meeting. On the down side… he glanced down at his wrinkled, low-end suit. He had slept in his clothes on the train, and it was starting to show. He hated to look like a slob for a formal dinner party.

“This says nine am,” England replied, handing back the invitation.

America wrinkled his nose adorably. “Huh. I coulda sworn it said ten.”

The clock behind the counter showed only ten minutes left to get to the meeting. With his reputation for timeliness at stake, England knew it was time to play on America’s greatest weakness. “You know… a hero always arrives in the nick of time,” he said, grabbing what little was left of his cup of tea as he stood up and headed toward the door. He trusted that America would take his comment as a dare.

Just as he expected, the younger nation darted out of his seat and quickly caught up with him. “You’re right, come on!” Still holding his coffee cup with his right hand, America reached out with his left hand and tugged England along with impressive speed. They hurried to the nearest dock and boarded a waiting water taxi as America flashed some euros at the driver.

It wasn’t until they sat down on the plush white cushions behind the driver that England realized he was still holding America’s hand. He let go and quickly turned his attention to the other boats in the busy canal. The sleek wooden water taxi skimmed past gondolas at a moderate pace, creating a ripple in the teal waters.

“Think we can go faster?” America asked impatiently. “We’re kinda in a hurry.”

The boat driver sniffed in derision and muttered something under his breath in Italian. It was too quick for England to catch, but he thought he recognized a few swears. America replied in equally fast, equally coarse Italian, earning him a look of newfound respect from the driver. They exchanged a few more words—what sounded like the promise of additional money—and America took the wheel.

“Hold on tight!” he shouted as he pushed the throttle to full speed.

England gripped the edge of the bench until his knuckles turned white, not that he needed an order from America to brace himself. Acceleration pushed his back against the cushion as the taxi whizzed past startled gondoliers.

The driver shouted directions in rapid Italian, encouraging America to dart between boats like they were filming a chase sequence for an action film. Two gondolas nearly blocked their path at the nearest bridge, but America managed to squeeze past with only a few centimeters to spare. England whipped his head to look behind him and breathed a sigh of relief when he confirmed that neither gondola had tipped over in their wake. He didn’t want to get kicked out of another country because America was a terrible driver. Then again, the Italians weren’t much better.

A few heart-pounding minutes later, they docked in front of a charming tan hotel with a red tile roof and red flowers beneath every window. England tried to climb out of his seat, but found his hands stuck like glue to the bench. He watched as America handed the driver a wad of euros.

America jumped off the boat and gave England a confused look when he didn’t follow. “Come on!” he urged.

Freed from the previous order to hold on, England jumped out of the boat and ran toward the hotel, overtaking America as they raced through the wide doors and into the opulent lobby. Following the sound of chattering voices, he ran up the red carpet staircase and stepped into the grand conference room just as the clock struck nine. Dozens of nations turned to look at him and silence rippled through the room. A few steps in, he realized America was no longer following behind him.

Acting as nonchalant as possible, England crossed the room and took his seat near the end of the U-shaped table. He was saved from the other nations’ prying questions when Germany took advantage of the silence to clear his throat.

“I will start the meeting now,” he announced stiffly, looking around the room at the dozens of gathered nations. “Thank you all for coming.”

In addition to the normal world meeting turnout, they were joined by a number of countries who typically allowed others to serve as their representatives. Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland had their own seats at the table, and all three turned to look at England with varying levels of surprise.

“You should each have an agenda in front of you,” Germany continued. “Please select your lunch and dinner options from the menu Italy prepared. America has asked to start our meeting with a proposal.”

Someone twittered and England’s eyebrows shot to the top of his forehead. A proposal? He didn’t even know America was dating someone!

Germany glanced around the room. “But he is late, so we will—”

Music suddenly blasted from the conference room speakers. “ _What is love?_ ” a voice sang. “ _Baby don’t hurt, don’t hurt me, no more_.”

“Don’t worry, the hero is here!” America announced as he burst through the conference room doors. He took Germany’s spot at the front podium and grinned at the gathered nations while the music continued to play in the background. “I’m here to save you from boredom. Instead of speechifying, we should do something fun! That’s why I hacked into the conference room speakers so we can spend the entire meeting doing Karaoke!”

“I second this motion,” Japan eagerly concurred.

“The motion is seconded. Are there any objections?” Germany asked.

England felt dozens of eyes turn to stare at him. “I trust you’ve brought some decent music in your collection?” he asked pointedly.

America laughed. “Don’t worry, dude. I’ve got some Beatles for you.”

“That’s acceptable then,” England replied haughtily. He couldn’t go too easy on America, lest others suspect him of going soft, but he didn’t completely object to the idea. After all, no one would notice he hadn’t prepared for the meeting if they spent the entire time singing silly love songs.

After America finished singing along to Haddaway’s one-hit wonder, the other nations piped up with their requests. Over the course of the next few hours, each took turns competing to see who could sing the best love song.

The highlight of the morning was Sweden’s rendition of Abba’s I do, I do, I do. Not because he was a particularly good singer, but because it was amazing to hear an entire song be completely disemvoweled. Most nations picked songs from their own singers, laughing and singing during their catered lunch and late into the afternoon.

England thought he would escape embarrassment during the karaoke session by sitting quietly in his seat and not making eye contact. His plans were ruined when America bounced over to his spot at the table.

“England, you gotta sing something!” America cried.

“ _Something_ ,” England sang.

America laughed. “Something longer than that. I got Queen. You like Queen, right?” Not waiting for England’s reply, he picked the first Queen song with love in the title.

England grimaced and the other nations watched in amusement as he began to sing along to Queen’s Somebody to Love.

“ _Can anybody find me somebody to love?_ ” he sang, carefully avoiding Japan’s gaze lest the other nation offer his match-making services. Cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment, England sang about working hard, but never finding anyone to love.

“Louder!” someone shouted and England was forced to belt out the final line.

“ _Anybody, anywhere, anybody find me… somebody to love love love! Somebody find me… find me love_.”

England wanted to sink into the ground as the other nations hooted and clapped. He tried not to make eye contact with anyone as he slunk back into his seat, but it was hard to avoid America’s gaze when the other nation was sitting right next to him.

“You should sing more often,” America declared, before turning his attention back to the group. “Now who’s next?”

* * *

Later that evening, England joined the other nations for an engagement dinner party hosted with German efficiency and Italian indulgence. Strings of lanterns provided a soft, warm light in the hotel’s courtyard for the round tables with white table clothes and lovely floral arrangements. The nations sat wherever they pleased as well-dressed waiters brought out plate after plate of the most amazing Italian cuisine. Although England had successfully avoided his brothers throughout the meeting, he found himself stuck with them for dinner when they insisted he join their table.

“Where have you been?” Scotland demanded brusquely.

England shrugged and took a bite of a delicious meatball. “Keeping busy,” he replied. The Queen’s commands prevented him from revealing the full truth, not that he wanted to anyway. His brothers already mocked him enough for his magical missteps. He didn’t want to add another one to the pile.

“But not doing your job,” Scotland retorted. “That glaikit bampot is embarrassing the crown again. Did you hear what he said last week?”

“He?” England blinked in surprise.

“That doaty roaster.” Scotland growled in exasperation. “He told the unemployed to stop complaining and enjoy their leisure time.”

“He said we could stop congestion if we just stopped the tourism,” Wales added.

“And don’t forgot that we can’t possibly have a rigid class system because dukes have married chorus girls,” Northern Ireland added.

England gaped and paused with his forkful of pasta only halfway to his mouth. “He said what?”

“Aye. And those were just on Thursday,” Scotland concluded.

“Good gad. I haven’t been following the news lately. I’ve been… out of the country,” England admitted, perturbed to learn that the situation was worse than his own, personal, private suffering.

“Told you,” Wales said to the others. “He took one look at that bloody fool of a king and buggered off.”

“I offered my services,” England retorted defensively.

“I didn’t. I don’t want anything to do with them,” Scotland replied.

England couldn’t blame him. “What do you think of the Queen?” he asked.

Scotland shrugged. “I don’t like her, but at least she seems respectable in public.”

While the others agreed, England grunted and went back to his pasta. Her commands prevented him from saying what he really felt. Instead, he finished his dinner and excused himself to convey his best wishes to the happy couple. Italy was glowing with happiness and even Germany walked around the party with a soft smile on his face.

Once he had satisfied the demands of etiquette, England slipped into a quiet corner of the courtyard and found Prussia sitting alone at a table.

The silver-haired nation nodded in greeting. “Long time since our last drinking night.”

“Yeah,” England agreed. “It’s been hard to get away lately.”

“I miss it sometimes,” Prussia mused as he nursed his beer.

“Miss drinking?”

“No, being useful. Serving my country.”

England snorted. “You wouldn’t say that if you had to serve my Queen.”

“Yes, I would!” Prussia insisted. “We have good ones and bad ones, but you lose part of yourself without them. Be grateful you have a monarch. Be happy you have so much work. It’s better than the alternative,” he muttered darkly.

England felt a surge of gratitude flow through him. Prussia was right. The obedience spell wasn’t a curse, it was a blessing! He stood up, suddenly determined to go back to the Queen and princesses and joyfully do any work they asked of him.

Prussia and a few other nations called after him, but England paid them no mind. He left the dinner party, happily purchased Jaffa cakes at a nearby Spanish supermarket, and hurried back to catch his return train to Switzerland. He couldn’t wait to find out what the Queen would order him to do next!


	8. Chapter 8

There was no finer place for afternoon tea in the world than Buckingham Palace. An elegant assortment of pastries and finger sandwiches sat on the tiered serving tray, which rested on the low table between two elegant couches. Next to it sat three cups. The King and Queen relaxed on one fashionably upholstered sofa, while England perched on the other.

“Would you care for more, your majesties?” he asked, smiling diffidently at his King and Queen as he offered to refill their tea.

The Queen nodded. “If you’d be so kind.”

England smoothly poured more tea and felt a wonderful surge of happiness. Every day had been a pleasure since he and the princesses had returned from Switzerland. He was able to fulfill his King and Queen’s every whim and fancy! Instead of polishing antique furniture, he now served them tea and provided a sympathetic ear.

“It’s almost the way he was with Mother,” the King commented, giving England a thoughtful look. “Perhaps he just needed time to warm up to you.”

“Perhaps.” She turned back to look at England. “I don’t know if the girls benefited much from their classes, but I must say, the school did wonders for you.”

“It was a privilege to serve you by helping them.”

“They were grateful for your assistance.” She paused and took another sip. “Hettie mentioned that you left for a while at the end of June. Where did you go?”

England’s cheeks tinged red with embarrassment. “It was a mistake to leave them alone, but I thought it was my greater duty to attend the World Meeting. It wasn't a true meeting. It was just Germany and Italy’s engagement party.”

A puzzled look crossed her face. “Germany. And Italy. I still don’t understand.”

“None of us do,” the King interjected. “They seem so different! But they must see something in each other. They’ve been together for decades.”

“Will they have to merge the nations?” she asked.

“I doubt it’ll be any different from what they do now,” the King replied.

“But they’re _countries_. It’s as absurd as a lake marrying a hillside.”

King Richard shrugged. “If a lake looked like a person and a hill looked like a person, maybe they would. Mother always said it’s best not to ask too many questions.”

“No, I want to understand.” She gave the national personification a puzzled look. “England, what are you?”

He set his cup onto the coffee table and gazed off into the distance. Through the large windows he could see the hints of greenery from the garden below. “The druids thought they knew. According to them, when people join together and begin to see themselves as sharing a collective identity of culture and customs, they start to give that idea life.”

She frowned. “You’re an idea?”

“Not quite.” He shook his head. He always felt a wave of solemn reverence fall over him when he remembered the druids. “We’re created from that spark, but anything made by humans will act human. We fall in love, we… suffer heartbreak, we search for happiness on the horizon, even if it never comes.”

The Queen nodded slowly. “I see. You’re shaped like people, so you act like us, and that means you can marry.” Her eyes widened, like a lightbulb had flashed above her head. Even though England was thrilled to serve his Queen, an involuntary shiver went down his spine. Oblivious to his reaction, Queen Lucille turned to her King and smiled. “Darling, do you remember how much good publicity we received when dear, sweet Eleanor had her beautiful wedding?”

“That was a lovely day,” he agreed, smiling like a proud father.

“Just imagine how ecstatic the country would be if it was our national personification who fell in love.”

“‘England In Love’ does sound like quite the headline,” he agreed.

“Exactly! It would give the tabloids something to write about other than his ‘mysterious disappearance,’” she huffed. “The Sun claimed he was abducted by aliens. They even had the gall to say it was based on a high-level American source.”

“Perhaps he should just go out in public a bit more?” the King suggested.

“No, we need something grander, something that will fill our people’s hearts with joy. We need a romance. Even better, we need an alliance with a powerful, wealthy country that will improve our trade and defenses.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“Of course. There’s only one natural choice." She paused dramatically. "China.”

“But I’m almost positive China is a man. Won’t certain people object?”

“Man, woman, what does it matter? They’re _countries_ , and China is the growing power on the world stage. A stronger relationship with him or her would be formidable.”

The King rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The idea has merit…”

“We could start with something small to test the waters.” She turned to England. “Invite China to dinner. Do whatever it takes to woo him.”

England nodded. “Yes, your majesty. Gladly.”

* * *

China accepted his dinner invitation a few days later, giving the palace time to prepare a sumptuous feast with a few _special_ ingredients handpicked by the Queen. The noodle dishes were spiced with the addition of Gingko Biloba and Goji berries. For a drink, they would sip on Horny Goat Weed tea. Although England didn’t have the best reputation for flavorful food, he had discovered an easy way to impress guests by hiring immigrant chefs. Even America had admitted that the food tasted pretty good the last time he came to visit.

They dined at a small, candle-lit table in the elegant Chinese dining room. Red drapes covered the windows and golden lions sat on the mantelpiece. Murals with Chinese figures decorated the walls, a reminder of Queen Victoria’s fascination with conquering other nations and stealing their artifacts. They ate off the finest blue-and-white patterned china and England smiled at the wordplay.

“This is… unexpected,” China said. He sniffed the tea and set it aside.

“We didn’t have a chance to talk at the meeting. I wanted to remedy that.”

“You left suddenly,” China agreed. “Did you and America have a fight again?”

England’s natural instinct was to deny there was anything between him and America, but he was supposed to be charming China, so he just shook his head and gave the other nation a bland look. “Nothing of the sort. He’s a friend… but not someone you can turn to when you want a more intellectual discussion.

China chuckled. “Indeed. A loud, brash young country with no appreciation for his elders. So what _do_ you want?”

“I’d like to talk about us.”

“Us?” China raised his eyebrows.

“Nations. Where we come from, why we exist.” England had been thinking about the topic lately and it struck him as the sort of conversation China would enjoy. Something to appeal to the ancient nation’s love of wisdom and knowledge.

China stroked his chin thoughtfully. “No one truly knows. Ancient Rome used to call us _Genius loci_. The protective spirit of a place.”

“Like guardian angels?” England perked up as he drank more of the tea. Perhaps that was the reason he was able to take the form of Britannia Angel.

“No, more like the spirits of nature associated with a particular place. In time, as humans started to form larger groups, we began to represent larger areas.”

England nodded and ate some more of the delicious noodles. He noticed that China looked especially handsome that evening, with his hair brushed back into a smooth ponytail and his dark eyes glinting in the candlelight. He was being coy as always—preferring to say what others thought instead of sharing his own opinions directly.

“Is that what you think we are?” England asked, spinning his noodles around his fork and placing another tasty mouthful between his lips. His face felt flushed from the heat of the spices. He lifted one hand to his neck and gently loosened his collar.

China toyed with his own food and watched England silently before finally responding. “No. I think we are a living connection to the great people who have lived in our nations. Through us, the people remember their ancestors.”

“I do remember all the greats,” England replied. The faces and voices of Kings, Queens, soldiers, and bards flickered through his mind. In a way they never left, they were always part of him. “But we’re not just a storage container for memories. We have our own thoughts and wishes.”

“Yes, we do,” China agreed, his voice surprisingly sharp.

England took another sip of tea and felt a pleasant warmth spreading throughout his body. For all their discussion of spirits and ancestral wisdom, he felt that neither could tell the full story. “We have physical needs, too,” he pointed out. “We like to eat and drink and spend time in the company of others.”

China gave him a pitying look. “You would be interested in company with as many aphrodisiacs as you have consumed tonight.”

“What?” England stared aghast at his nearly empty dinner plate.

“The smell is obvious. I would be angrier at you, but I recognize the look in your eyes. I have seen it many times before. You’re forced to serve a master you hate.”

England shook his head, warring between the need to defend his monarch while still obeying her command to woo China. “You’re mistaken. I’m grateful for the opportunity to serve the royal family.”

“How many have you forced to do your bidding over the years? How many have you conquered and claimed?” China smiled slightly. “I’m glad you’ve suffered the same fate. Perhaps you will learn from it.”

Filled with a mixture of chagrin and regret, England watched China push back his chair and stand up. He had failed and the Queen would be displeased.

Before he left the room, China glanced over his shoulder. “We don’t serve monarchs or emperors. They serve us.”

* * *

The Queen was disappointed in him, but she otherwise took the news in stride. “I suppose it would have been awkward to have you dating a communist anyway,” she admitted as they sat together in her elegant study.

“I’m so sorry I failed,” England apologized, staring at his feet.

“You’ll just have to try again,” the Queen said, a look of determination in her eyes. “I’ve thought through the candidates, and there’s another powerful country that I think would be very good for publicity. And I understand you already have a special relationship.”

England glanced up in surprise. “America?” he asked, a sense of trepidation welling in his chest.

“Yes. What do you think of him?”

“He’s… a friend. At least, when he’s not being a twat.”

“Well, that’s a start,” she replied. “I’m sure you can go from there.”

England loved obeying his Queen, but this felt like a bad idea for reasons he couldn’t entirely explain. “I don’t know. He’s very certain he’s straight,” he warned.

“Hmm.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully and turned to look at the pile of letters on her desk. “Judging by all these invitations he keeps sending you to Disney World, I don’t think it’s as hopeless as you fear. Now, pack your bags. You’re going to Florida.”

“Of course, your majesty,” England agreed. He smiled and skipped to his small room in the attic of the servant’s wing, overjoyed to serve at his Queen’s command.


	9. Chapter 9

America liked his houses the way he liked his Macs— _big_. His home in Florida was no exception. England paused as he unloaded his luggage from the taxi cab to admire the stylish mansion. Built in the Spanish Colonial Revival style, it had tan walls and a red tile roof; the colors contrasted beautifully with the palm trees growing on the perfectly manicured lot. Huge windows, high ceilings, and balconies for each of the bedrooms gave the house a bright, airy feeling, even in the sweltering humidity of September.

England approached the arched front entryway and rang the bell. He waited patiently and smiled as America opened the door with a look of surprise.

The younger nation gaped silently for a few moments, then blinked, like he didn’t quite believe his eyes. “ _England_? What are you doing here?”

“You invited me,” England reminded him.

“Yeah, but you never responded.”

England smiled flirtatiously. “I wanted to surprise you!”

“Really?” America looked dubious at the idea of extremely proper England ignoring etiquette by arriving unannounced. His eyes shifted to the luggage England was rolling behind him. Then America’s gaze dropped even lower and his eyes bulged when he finally noticed England’s shorts.

England smirked as he sauntered into America’s house. Given the heat, it was only natural to wear a pair of light, cotton shorts. America’s flustered reaction was just a bonus. He sighed with relief as the wonderful air conditioning caressed his skin. “I don’t know why you pick Florida this time of year. It’s beastly hot out there.”

“Yeah, hot…” America murmured in response. Out of the corner of his eye, England could see that America’s gaze was still attached to his bum like a barnacle on a hull. As much as he worried about any potential relationship’s long-term viability, he didn’t think he’d have any trouble carrying out the Queen’s command to go on a few dates. He was prepared—he’d waxed his legs and brought plenty of shorts.

England stood a few moments and waited for America to offer to take his luggage upstairs, but it quickly became apparent that he had short-circuited whatever small portion of America’s brain knew how to be a good host. Since America had no qualms about barging uninvited into England’s house, the older nation decided that turnabout was fair play, even if it went against his gentlemanly instincts. “I’ll go pick a bedroom,” he announced, grabbing his luggage and hauling it up the stairs.

By the time he was halfway up, America had finally picked his jaw off the floor and hurried behind. “No, let me get that!” he insisted.

England didn’t bother trying to fight the command, he just handed over the luggage. It had been some years since his last trip to Florida, but he was still fairly certain he knew the layout of the rooms. England walked confidently into a large bedroom and made himself at home on the soft, sumptuous king-size bed. From his position stretched out on the bed, he paused to admire the dark wood rafters on the ceiling and the lovely fireplace at the end of the room. In keeping with America’s desire to enjoy the nicest amenities of modern life, there was also a huge flat-screen television above the fireplace and a large selection of video game consoles.

America caught up a moment later and coughed awkwardly from the doorway. “Uh, this is _my_ bedroom.”

“Oh? My mistake.” England leisurely climbed out of bed and walked to the next bedroom. The guest bedroom wasn’t as large as the master suite, but the balcony did provide a wonderful view of the turquoise pool in the backyard.

The mansion was probably worth at least a million dollars, but that was hardly unusual. Like most nations, America had made his personal fortune in natural resources. First with several oil well discoveries in Pennsylvania, followed later by an impressive haul during the California gold rush. Some aspect of representing a nation made it easy to understand what lay beneath the land. For his part, England still had a knack for finding buried pirate treasure. He’d use that to build up his fortunes again if he ever had the chance.

“You’re being quieter than usual,” England remarked as he began to unpack his suitcase in the guest bedroom.

“I thought you were mad at me,” America admitted. The effect of the shorts must have worn off, since America was staring at his face again, and not at his legs.

England shook his head. “Of course not. I was just… preoccupied.”

“You haven’t texted back in six months!”

“ _Very_ preoccupied. And I lost my mobile.”

“No smartphone?” America gasped in horror. “How did you survive?”

England snorted. After all he had been through, lacking a mobile device was the least of his concerns. “Honestly, America, I survived for hundreds of years before smart phones. So did you.”

“I’ll get you a new one,” America promised.

“I didn’t come here for a new phone,” England replied, though he wouldn’t say no.

America titled his head to the side. “Why did you come?”

“To spend some time enjoying Florida.”

In response, America grinned widely. “I think I know something you’d like…”

* * *

To England’s surprise, America didn’t take him to Disney World.

Instead, they visited the Wizarding World of Harry Potter that afternoon. A nearly perfect replica of King’s Cross Station in jolly old muggle London greeted visitors at the entrance to the Harry Potter themed amusement park. England had little interest in a fake English train station, so they walked past Leicester Square to the brick hole in the wall that led to Diagon Alley. It was filled with all the brightly decorated store fronts, exactly as they appeared in the films.

England stepped into Zonko's Joke Shop and smiled in delight at the impressive collection of magical toys. Since school was back in session, the store didn’t have as many children underfoot as usual, but even the adults were filled with childish glee.  

“Ooh, look at this!” America exclaimed, holding up a Sneakoscope. According to the package, the spinning top lit up, spun, and whistled at any sign of deception. “This would be super useful at World Meetings.”

“About as useful as that time you brought a magic eight ball to decide all your votes,” England replied, but he smiled fondly. World Meetings would be a very different animal without America. More productive, certainly, but much less amusing.

After America had stuffed his bag with toys, they moved on the brightly lit aisles of Honeydukes Homemade Sweets. Colorful boxes of candy filled the bright green shelves: Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, and Exploding Bon Bons. Licking his lips with anticipation, America eagerly grabbed every type of fake wizarding candy available.

“Ya want some?” he offered as England gazed longingly at the Peppermint Toads.

“Yes,” England admitted. He missed eating sweets whenever he wanted.

They munched on chocolate frogs and peppermint toads as they wandered together down the crowded alley. No one bothered them, which wasn’t much of a surprise. Every nation had the ability to blend in with their countrymen. To them, America was just another face in the crowd, and England was yet another foreign tourist. Only the truly dedicated could spot them when they anonymously wandering around in public. For some reason, this group consisted mainly of teenage girls, who usually wanted a selfie and an autograph.

After finishing the last of his oddly flavored jelly beans, America eagerly tugged England into Madam Malkin’s Robes for all Occasions. He made a beeline for the blue-edged robes and gleefully donned a Ravenclaw robe and scarf.

“The red ones are for Gryffindor,” England corrected him, pointing towards the correct shelf.

“Yeah, I know.” America blithely continued admiring himself in the nearest mirror.

“Ravenclaw is the house of wit and learning.”

“Yep.” America turned and flashed him a cocky grin. “Way I see it, I’ve got the biggest library in the world _and_ the best universities. Plus, it’s blue and it has an eagle.”

England snorted. “With that compelling logic, I can see why you’re a Ravenclaw.”

“Zackly!”

“I suppose that makes me a Gryffindor,” England mused as he tugged on a red robe. “They believe in chivalry and have a lion mascot.”

America’s eyes widened. “You’re right! And together we’re red and blue.” He strode over and wrapped an arm around England’s shoulder. America pulled the island nation closer, angled them toward the nearest full-length mirror, and beamed with happiness. “Look at how well we match!”

England stared at their reflection and heat rose in his cheeks. The colors did go together nicely and the blue scarf brought out America’s beautiful eyes. The younger nation looked utterly charming with his carefree smile. They locked eyes in the mirror and, for a few moments, neither breathed.

The spell between them broke as America hurriedly pulled away. “It’s too hot for robes,” he complained as he tugged off the costume and returned it to the rack.

They left with just the scarves. America avoided England’s gaze and walked briskly toward the line for the Gringotts ride. The line snaked around the brick building, filled with happily chattering teenagers and young families. England sighed and leaned against the building as he waited for their turn. He didn’t understand what drove America sometimes. They would have a lovely moment, and then America would rip it away. In return, England was tempted to be grouchy and rude, but the Queen’s commands kept his mouth shut. He was supposed to be wooing America and making sure that some of their dates provided a distraction from all the negative press about the new royal family.

They waited in silence. Around them Diagon Alley bustled with happy shoppers and excited children. It wasn’t magic as England knew it, but it had a magic of its own all the same. It was a testament to Rowling’s amazing world building skills that the place could inspire such wonder despite the crass commercialism.

Before he knew it, they shuffled onto the next train on the Escape from Gringotts ride. The train track was completely indoors, but the sharp drops and the impressive lighting effects in the dark rooms gave the illusion of a much larger building. After dodging dragons, giants, and Lord Voldemort himself, they ended the ride on a high note with the swelling Harry Potter theme song.

America laughed and seemed in a much more cheerful mood as they disembarked. “Hogwarts Express, next!” he announced, leading the way back to the replica of King’s Cross station. They couldn’t actually run through a brick wall to get to Platform 9¾, but there was a place to take picture with a trolley that seemed to be disappearing into the wall. The two countries took turns striking silly poses and taking pictures with America’s smartphone.  

A nearby tween watched them in awestruck fascination. “Oh, my god. Are you really him?” she asked America. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a wink and a heavy dollop of southern charm.

England rolled his eyes. The girl seemed to notice him for the first time. “Is this your brother?” she asked with the frankness of youth.

America looked at England.

England looked at America.

“No,” they both replied simultaneously.

She nodded. “Cool. Brothers suck.”

“Allison, hurry up or we’re going to miss the ride!” a middle-aged man shouted. The girl rolled her eyes and hurried off.

America and England picked up the pace and caught the Hogwarts Express before it left the station. The train was a lovely replica of the one in the films, with plush seats and flicking lanterns along the hallway. Unfortunately, it lacked the wonderful sweets trolley, which everyone knew was the best part of the Hogwarts Express. America had to make do with his leftover candy from Honeydukes.  

As the train pulled out of the station, televisions embedded in the windows gave the impression that they were rolling out of London and into the magical hinterlands, not moving through an amusement park in Florida. America watched the videos with rapt attention and smiled. “Man, I wish this existed in real life.”

“It’s basically Scotland. We can visit if you want.”

“I thought you didn’t like Scotland?”

“The _land_ is beautiful. The man is aggravating. All of my brothers are,” England replied. The teenager who complained about brothers had shown wisdom beyond her years.

“My brother’s awesome,” America bragged.

“Yes, well, we should all be so lucky.”

America just laughed and leaned towards the window as he thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the ride. It was too fake for England’s taste. A video on a screen couldn’t properly capture the grandeur of his land’s northern reaches, although it did have several nice touches referencing the books. After a few more minutes they pulled into the station and disembarked at Hogsmeade.

Despite his constant snacking, America insisted on ending the day at Three Broomsticks for dinner. The front of the building looked like a rustic cottage on steroids, with thick stone walls and a variety of dormer windows at haphazard heights. Fake white snow covered the rooftops. True to its name, three broomsticks hung above the entrance. The restaurant inside was cavernous, with gorgeous old woodwork along the ceiling and balconies and plenty of wooden tables and chairs.

Naturally, they both ordered Butterbeer. America chose the frozen slushie version, while England went with the regular chilled option. He didn’t normally like such cold beer, but on a hot day at summer’s end, the cold Butterbeer was delicious. The drink tasted of butterscotch and shortbread, with a light, frothy cream on top.

For a main dish, England chose the Shepherd’s Pie, while America picked the Great Feast. “You know that’s meant for four people, right?” England noted.

America just grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll be getting dessert, too!”

The food arrived quickly enough and took up every spare inch of table space. America focused on devouring his ribs and roasted chicken, sparing England the discomfort of watching him eat and talk at the same time. The Shepherd’s Pie was tasty enough, and certainly better than what England had expected from an amusement park. By the time he was done, America had cleaned off the final plate of chicken. True to his word, he even ordered dessert after finishing what should have been a meal for four people.

England sampled a few bites of America’s Butterbeer ice cream and Butterbeer potted cream. Both were sweet and delicious, with the slight tang of butterscotch and the sweetness of pure cream. America devoured every ounce of Butterbeer-flavored dessert and sighed happily.

Still in a bit of a food coma, they ambled back to the vehicle and headed home.

They capped off the evening with a movie. To England’s surprise, the younger nation kept his nicest television in his bedroom, not in the living room, because that was where he watched the most television. It was hard to argue with his logic, though England strenuously opposed America’s choice of a horror film.

“But it’s almost Halloween!” America insisted.

“It’s not even October.”

“I’ll let you pick the horror movie.”

Sensing defeat, England gave in and chose ‘Coraline.’ He hoped the stop motion animation would keep America from freaking out as much as usual. After all, how scary could it be? It was just a weird kid’s film.

They leaned back into a high pile of pillows and shared a giant bowl of popcorn between them. The story turned out to be far more unsettling than England expected.

It started with the disturbing scene of a pair of metallic hands taking an old doll apart and slowly transforming it into a new one, including the finishing touch of two black buttons for eyes. The doll looked exactly like Coraline, a lonely girl who spent the beginning of the film exploring an old apartment building while her parents were busy working. She met the eccentric neighbors, who dropped cryptic hints that sailed over America’s head. When one of her new neighbors gave Coraline a doll that looked exactly like her, America shivered and shifted a little closer to England.

The movie shifted to brighter colors when Coraline found a passage to a parallel universe of bright colors, excitement, and loving parents… with buttons for eyes. The movie tried to make the other world seem friendly and normal, but it wasn't.

America yelped as Coraline frantically tried to escape from the villain when she finally revealed herself. He grabbed England and hugged him like a security blanket as the ghosts of the villain's previous victims appeared before Coraline, delivering warnings and begging for help to escape. It was a chilling scene, but difficult to hear the dialogue over the sound of America’s whimpers.

“It’s just a film,” England murmured as he rubbed America’s back soothingly. He rescued the bowl of popcorn and set it on the night stand before America could knock it over and spill greasy kernels on the bed.

“B-but what if g-ghosts are real?”

“Just make friends with them. You befriended an alien and a whale. I’m sure a ghost wouldn’t be any problem.”

That seemed to calm America enough to let them finish the movie in peace. As much as he had enjoyed the film, England struggled to keep his eyes open for the finale. It finished with a mostly happy ending, except for a few unsettling hints that evil still lurked beneath the surface.

England yawned and stood up. “Well, I’m for bed.”

“Wait!” America cried, grabbing England’s wrist. “Don’t leave me alone,” he pleaded, voice quivering as he stared at England with puppy dog eyes.

Driven by the command, England climbed back into bed. Of course, he knew he would have stayed even without the obedience potion. This wasn’t the first time he had watched a horror film with America and wouldn’t be the last time he gave in to America’s pleading and kept him company during the long, dark night.

England kept to his side of the bed as America took off his glasses and burrowed beneath the sheets. He reached over to turn off the lamp. The room was still half-lit by the lamp on America’s side, but England knew there was no way the frightened nation was going to turn off his light.

Jet lag caught up with England and he yawned deeply.

America peeked out from underneath the covers with wide, blue, pleading eyes. “Don’t fall asleep before I do.”

“Of course not,” England promised. He stared at the ceiling for nearly half an hour, forced by the obedience spell to stay awake until he finally heard America’s breathing even out. He glanced over to make sure the younger nation was truly asleep. America’s mouth hung slightly open and his messy blond hair sprawled out on the pillow. England reached over and smoothed a few strands back into place. “I can see why you’re not in Gryffindor,” he murmured, giving America a fond, exasperated smile. America had the wild imagination of a Ravenclaw, even if he did let it run away with him sometimes.

As England finally slipped into slumber, he felt a pang of worry on America’s behalf. He wasn’t concerned about spider-like creatures trying to turn America’s eyes into buttons. Instead, he feared what his wicked Queen might order him to do next. It could be something far more dangerous than dates...


	10. Chapter 10

Shopping for a new smartphone with America was an adventure. Specifically, a time travel adventure. England felt that he had suddenly landed one hundred years in the future as he wandered around the bright, stylish store filled with high-tech gizmos. He stared in confusion while shopping assistants babbled technological nonsense and pretended it was perfectly normal to control every appliance in one’s house with a single device.

England walked between elegant counter-top displays and tried to find something simple and cheap. He didn’t want to waste America’s money on a high-tech gadget he would barely use. Theoretically there was a cheapest phone somewhere in the store, but he couldn’t seem to find it. Perhaps they had hidden it in the corner under a box.

“Oooh, you’ll like this one,” America declared, shoving another sleek mobile under England’s nose. “If you link it to a Keurig, it can make a cup of tea for you whenever you want!”

England furrowed his brow. “Why would I do that? I _like_ making my own tea.”

“Yeah, but this can do it faster. And it’s got an amazing virtual reality simulator and a night vision mode for cool 3D photos!”

Shaking his head, England replied, “All I want is a mobile that can call and text. My last one was a flip phone and it worked perfectly fine.”

America rolled his eyes. “Stop being such an old geezer and let me get you something cool!”

“All right,” England agreed, forced into compliance against his better judgment.

“Really?” America blinked. He grinned and headed toward the biggest, priciest phones with the most outlandish features.

And that was how England ended up with a very expensive mobile with all the newest fangled technologies. It even claimed to be waterproof, leading America to propose a test in his backyard swimming pool when they got back.

England shrugged and changed into his swim trunks. He didn’t care what happened to the phone, but a dip in the water to cool off sounded nice. He stepped out onto the deck and drank in the view. The pool had been designed to look like a tropical paradise, with a cascading waterfall in the back and ferns and colorful flowers growing along the man-made rocky outcrops. The water itself was crystal clear and shimmered beneath the bright blue sky.

A blond head peeked out of the water. America caught England’s gaze and flashed a brilliant smile. As he stood up and turned to face England, his sun-kissed skin and strong muscles came into view. Despite his terrible diet, America had broad shoulders and well-defined biceps. A little lower, perfect pecs led to amazing abs. Below that, his star-spangled trunks rippled in the water.

“Huh, I guess it _is_ waterproof,” America mused as he lifted England’s new phone out of the water. It had sunk to the bottom of the pool, but was still functioning perfectly.

“Wonderful,” England replied dryly. He spotted a bottle of sunscreen on a side table and helped himself to a generous dollop. If he wasn’t careful, his skin would go from pasty white to painful pink in the span of just an hour. England slathered his face, arms, chest, and legs with sunscreen, taking care to cover every inch.

He glanced at America and caught the other man staring at his legs.

England grinned. “Would you mind helping me with my back?” he asked innocently.

“Uh, sure.” America climbed out of the pool in his dripping swim trunks and awkwardly accepted the bottle. He dried his hands on a towel, then started at the top of England’s back with a surprisingly soft touch.

“You need to rub it in harder than that if you want it to work.”

America flushed and worked his way lower down England’s back with a firmer touch. He took longer than necessary, but England wasn’t going to complain. The application felt almost like a back massage. America’s hand hesitated as he reached the base of England’s spine. Slowly, he applied the lotion along the waistband of England’s trunks, letting his fingers gently slide beneath the fabric.

“Thank you,” England murmured. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled to see America flush. They held the pose for a few breathless moments before America hurriedly broke away and dived back in the pool.

“England, jump in! The water’s great,” America called when he resurfaced.

Annoyed that the order was preventing him from relaxing poolside like he had planned, England retaliated by cannon-balling into the pool right next to America. He soaked the other nation with a wave of water. America just laughed and splashed back, sending them into a no-holds-barred water fight.

America used his incredible strength to send tidal waves of water rushing at England, but England had the advantage of greater cunning. He feinted left, then ducked right and used the palm of his hand to target a spray of water directly at America’s face. America closed his eyes automatically, leaving him open for fast two-handed splashes on either side of his face.

He just laughed and sent another wave in England’s direction. England couldn’t duck fast enough; the full force of the wave knocked him back and sent water splashing onto everything within a meter of the pool’s edge.

They splashed back and forth until both were thoroughly soaked and completely out of breath. England climbed out of the pool when he had finally had enough. He grabbed a towel from a rack next to the side of the house and relaxed on one of the nearby lounge chairs.

While America splashed around in the water, England lounged back in his chair and thought carefully about his predicament. The obedience potion was still active, but he no longer felt grateful to serve his monarchs. It seemed that individual orders faded away, even if the potion itself didn’t. The discovery meant that the obedience potion wouldn’t have been useful for its original purpose anyway. It also meant that England would eventually be free from all of the Queen’s orders if he spent enough time away from her.

England watched America as he swam laps back and forth. Because he was no longer bound by the Queen’s order to tell no one of what she had been doing, he could tell America the truth. He was tempted. It looked increasingly doubtful that he would break the spell on his own, and he mostly trusted America to try to help him instead of turning the situation to his advantage. Mostly. He was still certain America would make him go to a McDonald’s and admit that he liked their fast food.

The only problem was that he would actually have to convince America that magic was real. And then he would just have to hope that America never thought to ask him why he had brewed an obedience potion in the first place.

The splashes died down as America approached the edge of the pool closest to England. He lifted himself out of the pool. His tanned skin glistened. America grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist. “Want anything to drink?” he asked.

“Iced tea. _Not_ sweet,” England replied, specifying his order based on long experience from visits to America’s Southern states.

America chuckled. He went into the house and returned a few minutes later with two glasses filled with tea and clinking ice. They lounged poolside, sipping cold drinks on a warm day.

“Bet this is nicer than your place right now,” America teased.

England snorted. “You’d lose that bet. I love the crisp autumn weather.”

“Yeah, I know. Curling up with a cup of tea by a cozy fire and all that jazz,” America said in a mockery of an English accent. He took another sip and glanced at England out of the corner of his eye. “Yet you’re here. Things not going well back home?”

For a few moments, England stared silently into the icy depths of his glass. He normally used hot tea for his divinations, but he wondered if they worked equally well with cold. It seemed not, since the liquid remained the same shade of mahogany mixed with lighter spots from the floating ice. The cold glass imparted no wisdom and he was forced to make the choice on his own. Hiding his predicament hadn’t helped him—perhaps the truth could.

“The new monarchs are bloody awful,” he admitted, anger spiking in his voice. “The King is an easily led fool and the Queen… oh god, the Queen. She thinks a crown gives her the absolute right to order us around. Even worse, she expects us to _like_ her while she does it.”

America’s mouth dropped open in shock. “But… but isn’t that kinda the point of a crown?”

“No, the point is a sword. An army of them, in fact,” England corrected. “The old Kings and Queens sat on the throne because they were conquerors and killers. They excelled at it. But that was a long time ago. We expect them to be diplomats and philanthropists now.”

“You didn’t hit your head, did you?” America climbed out of his chair and stood behind England, running his hands over England’s head to check for any mysterious bumps.

“Stop that,” England complained, swatting away America’s hands. “I have no issues with the institution as long as they respect the bargain. They’re allowed to have power, provided they don’t try to exercise it.”

“Sounds stupid to me.”

“I don’t expect you to understand. It’s tradition.”

America shrugged and plopped back onto his chair. He lounged with his arms stretched behind his head and stared up at the bright blue sky. “I’ve had some real greedy bastards too and it was awful. I like the current one; she’s cool. But I still say you should do what I do.”

“Act bloody useless so my leaders never expect anything of me?” England replied, arching a cynical eyebrow.

America beamed. “Yep! Works every time.”

“I hate feeling useless.” England retorted. He sighed, and added in a quieter tone, “But I hate feeling used. I’m just a tool to them. It’s always England do this or England do that.”

“Hey, don’t let them boss you around. Do what you want to do!”

England blinked, feeling all the commands weighing him down drop from his shoulders like heavy chainmail removed after battle. From the lounge chair next to his, America stared obliviously up at the sky. England was tempted to lean over and kiss him in gratitude, but the sure knowledge that America would not react happily stayed his lips. Still, there was something else he wanted with all his heart.

He stood up and walked to the kitchen.

“Hey, where are you going?” America yelled after him. He followed behind, bringing the iced tea with him. When he saw where England was headed, he sped up. “You’re not gonna cook something are you?” he called, voice tinged with panic.

“No. I’m going to make an obedience potion so the Queen has to _obey_ my commands!” England cackled as he filled a large pot with water and began reaching for the ingredients in the cabinets. He was disappointed to find that America didn’t stock newt eyes or bat wings. “We’re going to need to visit a pet store,” he muttered.

“Hold on.” America’s command froze England in place before he could start boiling the water. “You don’t actually think you can control someone with a _potion_ , do you?” he demanded incredulously.

“ _You_ believe in alien mind control technology,” England retorted, turning around to glare at America’s disbelieving face.

“Yeah, but that’s different.”

“On the contrary, there’s no difference between sufficiently advanced technology and magic.”

America took the pot of water away from England and dumped it in the sink before returning the sugar to its place on the middle shelf. “I don’t care. I ain’t letting you cook in my kitchen. The only magic _that_ resembles is a fireball.”

“Hah!” England crossed his arms and leaned against the kitchen island. “You claim you don’t believe in magic, but you’re familiar with the basic spells.”

America stared at him incredulously. “Dude, that’s not real, it’s just D&D.”

“And where do you think the Wizards of the Coast first learned about those spells, _hmm_?” England raised an eyebrow.

“They didn’t, I mean, it’s not…” A flicker of doubt crossed America’s face. He recovered quickly and scoffed as he leaned against the counter. “It’s just a game.”

“Yes, a game for nerds. No wonder you chose Ravenclaw,” England replied with fond wryness. “Still playing with Lithuania and Estonia?”

America flushed and nodded in embarrassment. “Japan too sometimes.”

“Does it have a spell that lets you control someone’s actions?” England asked, curiosity piqued. If Dungeons and Dragons was inspired by true magic, perhaps it would offer some clues for his aggravating predicament.

“Well…” America rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “There’s Dominate Person. That lets you give mental commands if they fail their saving throw.”

“Interesting. Any way to break it?”

“Normally it just runs out. It’s got a duration based on the caster level. Oh, and if you get hurt or if you’re forced to do something against your true nature, you get another saving throw.”

“Hmm. So if someone ordered you to stop liking hamburgers, for example?”

America laughed. “It’s up to the GM, but it’d have to be more serious than that. Like attacking one of your teammates, assuming the party likes each other.”

England nodded thoughtfully. It seemed unlikely that his Queen would order him to attack other nations, but at least it offered a new perspective. Unfortunately, the potion he drank had been made to be strong enough to overcome a nation’s willpower and to last a very long time.

“Wanna join our next game night?” America asked. “We got one planned after my big Halloween party.”

“Sure,” England agreed halfheartedly. “Any special plans for the party?” he asked. America always tried to outdo himself every year and England wanted a clue in case America intended to con him into a silly sidekick costume again.

America beamed. “It’s gonna be amazing! I’m doing a fancy masquerade ball so we can all wear swanky costumes. Ooh, you gotta see my costume!” He grabbed England’s hand and eagerly tugged him toward the stairs.

Once in the bedroom, America led the way to his walk-in closet. The inside was as disorganized as one would expect for an average 19-year-old lad, the unusual part was the number of outfits that were decades old. America steadfastly maintained that one day bellbottoms _would_ come back into style and he was ready for it.

An entire section of the closet was dedicated to Halloween costumes. England recognized the Batman suit and the Freddy Krueger costume. As America hunted among the costumes, England’s gaze dropped to the messy collection of magazines on the closet floor. He narrowed his eyes and pulled out one that looked familiar. ‘Playguy’ the title blared. On the outside cover was a slender young man with nicely toned muscles wearing very little clothing. Beneath it was a collection of ‘Freshmen’ magazines featuring even more handsome young men.

“Nice set of laddie magazines,” England remarked with a connoisseur’s eye.

America whirled around and his cheeks turned bright red. “Those aren’t mine! I’m, uh, keeping them for a friend.”

“Riiight.”

“I mean, I thought they were Playboy!”

England lifted a magazine cover featuring a shirtless man and arched an eyebrow. “Well, they _do_ have very firm chests.”

“Okay, okay, sometimes I like to browse through them,” America admitted. “Nothing else!” he insisted.

England gave America a sympathetic look. “I know the Puritans were bad, but times have changed. This is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It’s just…” America hung his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

England took a step closer and gently rested his hand on America’s shoulder. “You listened to my sorry tale, let me help you by listening to yours. I might understand better than you think.”

For a few moments, America gazed searchingly into England’s eyes. England held his breath and kept his expression calm and nonjudgmental as he let his hand fall to his side. Unable to keep up direct eye contact any longer, America dropped his gaze to the floor. “Promise you won’t tell Canada?” he asked softly. “Or anyone else?”

“I promise,” England replied, uncertain what Canada had to do with it.

America cleared his throat and struggled with where to begin. “So… you know how Prussia helped train me? Back then,” he added vaguely.

“Yes,” England whispered past the lump in his throat. He should have known it would involve America’s Revolution. Everything between them eventually did.

“Well, I… sorta hero-worshiped him,” America continued, eyes still downcast. “And one thing… kinda led to another and one day we went back to my tent after practice and he promised he’d show me some other stuff.” A hint of a smile ghosted America’s lips. “It was fun until Mr. Washington walked in.”

Prussia _again_. England tried not to growl in annoyance. At least it made sense why America didn’t want Canada to know about his dalliance two centuries earlier with Canada’s boyfriend.

“He told me that if he ever saw me engaged in those sorts of sinful relations again, he would have me drummed and fifed out of camp for my abhorrent, detestable crime. He’d already done that to an enlisted soldier.” America sighed. “I think it was one of the things he was talking about when he told me not to entangle myself with foreign nations.”

“I see.” England nodded and struggled to keep his composure. It didn’t matter, America was still looking at the carpet, not him. The truth was, he had dealt with this issue before in some manner, and he had a good idea how to help. “How old are you, America?”

“Uh.” America looked up in surprise. “Two forty-five.”

“But that’s not your real age.”

“I mean, I guess technically I’ve been around for four hundred some years.”

“And yet you still get carded.”

America shrugged. “Well, yeah, all the bartenders think I look under 21.”

“As much as you like to call me an old man, the truth is that none of us are greybeards. We’re young. And the reason is we don’t represent our countries as they existed a hundred years ago, we represent what they are now.” He gave America an encouraging smile. “You’ve become a very tolerant country. Perhaps it’s time to let go of the past and learn to accept yourself.”

“It’s just…” America said, voice suspiciously rough.

“I know how much he meant to you,” England added softly. It didn’t hurt to admit it—he’d buried that historical resentment a long time ago. “But if he were alive today, he would feel differently. I suspect even back then he was more concerned for your wellbeing than disgusted by your tastes. It was common to flog or execute men for sodomy. By the standards of the time, kicking a sodomite out of the army showed leniency.”

America frowned thoughtfully, like he was reassessing old conversations and potentially reaching different conclusions. “I… I guess.”

England nodded encouragingly. It was tempting to add that America didn’t need to take moral advice from a slave owner, but he suspected that particular argument wouldn’t go over well.

America leaned in and surprised England with a warm bear hug. England patted him on the back and tried to calm his own racing heart. America mumbled something against his shoulder, but England couldn’t hear it over the sound of blood pounding in his ears.

“What did you say?” he asked when America finally pulled back.

“Nothing,” America quickly replied. He smiled and grabbed a costume from the rack. “Here’s my Zorro outfit. Awesome, right?”

“Lovely,” England agreed, gently caressing the fine, black silk as he let America move their conversation back to safer ground. He was normally ambivalent about Halloween, but the costume gave him a reason to look forward to the party. It was always a treat to see America dressed up. As he eyed the cape, England noticed the sword hanging from the belt. “You’re not actually going to wear that to the party are you?”

America just grinned, which was probably a yes.

Mission accomplished, they stepped out of the closet. England went back to his own guest bedroom. He leaned against the door and smiled to himself. He and America would always have a complicated relationship, but for the first time he felt hopeful that they could make it work. Then he thought of how pleased his Queen would be and frowned.

They spent the next few days dancing around each other as England helped America with all non-food-related preparations for the Halloween party. America spent more time by himself in uncharacteristically quiet thought. For his part, England held back, careful to avoid America’s lingering anxieties and concerned about how his Queen might try to benefit from any potential relationship between them.

England knew he needed to break the enchantment first, but in America’s house he lacked even the most rudimentary magical tools. He also lacked someone who would believe him about the magic spell. He could try to broach the subject again, but with America still processing one major change in his worldview, it seemed the wrong time to press him to accept magic too.

In the end, England’s continued silence cost him his chance.

“You’ve been acting weird,” America casually mentioned at breakfast as he slurped his way through another bowl of cereal. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“My Queen ordered me to woo you and now I don’t know what to do about it,” England replied, stating the main worry on his mind before he could clap his hands over his mouth. Oh, god. That wasn’t how he wanted to tell America!

“What?” America’s eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed in anger.

“I mean, I don’t want to give her what she wants,” England quickly explained, but it was too late.

“Is that why you’re here instead of London?” America demanded furiously. “Is _that_ what your whole Washington speech was about? Just to make your Queen happy?”

“No, that’s not—”

“I should have known,” America interrupted, eyes filled with hurt and betrayal. “Get out,” he growled behind clenched teeth. As England reached the front door, he heard America shout after him, “Go to hell, England!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember if I mentioned this earlier, but this story takes place a few years in the future, as confirmed in this chapter. And yes, America now has a female president. I don't know who is is, but she's awesome. That's definitely the main revelation of this chapter ;D


	11. Chapter 11

Heathrow teemed with crowds of travelers waiting for their suitcases at the baggage carousel. England strode past without a second glance—he had nothing more than what he had been wearing when America kicked him out of the house, plus the jacket purchased at the airport in Detroit and a small plastic bag.

Making his way through the arrival section, England dodged businesspeople in suits and tourists in sweats. At the end of the hallway stood those waiting for arrivals with signs in their hands. He craned his neck, searching for a familiar head of dark brown hair. His eyes skimmed the signs until he spotted one that immediately caught his attention. ‘Iggy’ it read.

As much as he disliked that nickname, England smiled softly. It was a name he was willing to put up with from only a few people in the world. The man holding the sign was one of them. As England hurried over, Howard smiled back and held his palm out for a handshake. England grasped the palm with his right hand and reached his left arm around to clasp Howard’s back, turning the handshake into a hug.

“Welcome back, Mr. England,” Howard replied. “How was Hell?”

“Cold.” England handed over a plastic bag. “This is for you.”

Inside the bag was a t-shirt. In bold, flame-colored letters, it proclaimed, ‘I’ve Been to Hell and Back.’ Howard gave the t-shirt a dubious look. “Uh, thank you,” he replied politely.

“It was… an impulse buy,” England explained with a shrug. The woman behind the counter at the Hell Hole Diner had cheerfully told him to buy something for a friend, and so he had. At least England had managed to satisfy America’s command by visiting Hell, Michigan, instead of going to his personal hell in Buckingham Palace or Paris, France. He still found it difficult to believe an entire town had built a tourism industry on devil puns. Then again, it did seem like the sort of thing America would do.

“I hope you enjoyed your visit,” Howard said conversationally as they passed through the automatic doors and began walking toward the short-term parking garage.

“I accomplished what I needed to,” England replied, in a tone that meant _don’t ask_.

Howard, with all the skill at social cues that America lacked, nodded tactfully. “I see. Where do you want to go now? Hell, Norway?”

England chuckled. “Hell no. I’m ready to go home,” he declared. He climbed into the passenger side of Howard’s small, sensible car, grateful to once again be on the left hand side.

“It’s probably the wrong time of year to visit Norway anyway,” Howard agreed as he pulled out of the parking spot and joined the crowded line of cars exiting the garage. “What’s your new address?”

“Same address. It’s the one in Hampstead.”

That response earned a surprised glance from Howard. “I thought you sold it.”

“No, someone made a mistake.” They had made a mistake when they bought the place. If it was an innocent mistake, he would buy it back. If it was someone who should have known better, he would take it back with interest. “So, how has everything been going for you?” England asked, blatantly changing the subject. He listened eagerly as Howard caught him up with going-ons for the past nine months.

“…I already knew half the people at the U.S. Embassy, so it was easy enough to get a position there. The tea selection in the breakroom isn’t quite what it could be, but they treat me well,” Howard explained. He gave England an odd glance, but added nothing else.

“That’s good to hear,” England said, relieved that his absence hadn’t hurt Howard’s job prospects. He had worried about his young assistant, but there hadn’t been anything he could do for him while he was trapped obeying the Queen’s orders.

He wondered if Howard ever spoke with America, but he decided not to ask. England placed his hand on the phone in his pocket. Even after he got off the plane, he had left it turned off. Last time he had checked, he had dozens of unread text messages from America and an equal number of missed calls. He wanted to listen, but didn’t dare given his certainty that America would tell him to call back or come back.

They drove in silence for the next few miles. England watched the signs roll past, comforted by every reminder of home. While he still didn’t have an antidote to the obedience potion, he had another plan in mind. And it required the magical supplies he kept in his basement.

A gentle clearing of the throat took England’s mind off his plan. He glanced over at Howard and finally noticed the slight crease in his former assistant’s forehead.

“Is something wrong?” England wondered.

“There’s something I’ve been wondering,” Howard began hesitantly, his eyes still focused on the road. “But I don’t quite know how to ask it politely.”

“You don’t need to worry about being polite,” England reassured him. “You’ve been more than kind. If something’s troubling you, I want to hear it.”

“Well, I thought I did a very good job as your assistant.”

“You did.”

“So… why did you fire me?”

“What?” England gaped. “I didn’t fire you!”

“You stopped paying me.”

“Not by choice,” England insisted, embarrassed that Howard had thought the decision came from him. A second later, another thought occurred to him. “You thought I fired you and you _still_ came to pick me up from the airport?” he asked disbelievingly.

“I was upset at first, but I thought… well, with the timing and everything, I assumed it had something to do with the Queen dying.”

“Yes,” England agreed, voice leaden. Even nine months later, her death still felt like a punch in the gut.

Howard nodded sympathetically. “I’m glad it wasn’t an issue with my work.”

“No, of course not!” England shook his head vehemently. “I couldn’t have asked for a better assistant. I’m sorry I wasn’t a more considerate boss. And I hope you’d be willing to consider resuming your position after I… clear up some personal matters.”

“We’ll see what your offer is,” Howard replied with a playful smile.

“If you accept pirate treasure, I’m sure I can make a very good one,” England promised, hopeful that he would be able to make good on his promise soon. He fell silent as they neared his old house. He narrowed his eyes and peered into the windows, trying to spot the interloper who had bought his house. “You’d better park around the corner,” he instructed before Howard could drop him off in the front. He wanted the element of surprise.

Howard parked on a quiet side street. He had a piece of parting advice before England climbed out. “I know you hate asking for help, but I want you to call me if you need anything.”

England nodded. “Thank you,” he said around the lump in his throat. After the grueling months spent with heartless monarchs and selfish princesses, it helped to remember the kindness and loyalty of people like his young assistant. England wished he was better at trusting people, but too many betrayals over the years had made him gun-shy.

They had pulled up in front of a Tudor mansion owned by a wealthy banker and her handsome young husband. Fortunately, both spent most of their time at work during the week. England walked nonchalantly up the driveway and slipped through the hedges in the back until he was in his former back yard. He hid behind the grove of hemlock trees. The lights upstairs told him that _someone_ was home. Smaller, more colorful lights appeared in the tree branches around England as the fairies fluttered and called to him, excited to see him again after his long absence.

“I missed you, too, my lovelies,” England whispered fondly. He cocked his head and listened carefully as the fairies described the intruder living in the house. He was an old man with a permanently sour expression. The first thing he had done when he bought the house was emptied out England’s liquor cabinets while making disparaging comments about England. After that, he spent most of his days writing letters to the editor complaining about ‘kids these days.’

England raised his eyebrows and chuckled darkly, surprising the fairies even more. “I think I know who that is,” he explained. “You remember when I used to complain about Mr. Keller? He thought it was his job to boss me around.” England frowned. Last he heard, his Queen had planned on firing the man, not rewarding him with a house. Clearly something had changed. But at least he wouldn’t have to worry about chasing an innocent buyer out of his house.

With a hovering fairy on guard to make sure the home’s new owner stayed upstairs, England slipped through the neglected garden to the back door. Another helpful fairy unlocked the door for him, the way they always did when he forgot his keys or was too drunk to find them.

“Thank you,” he murmured as he quietly opened the door and slipped inside. He checked the refrigerator and pantry. He grabbed a few bottles of water and a slightly stale croissant, then quietly padded over to the stairs to the basement. With the spell still securely warding the door, he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone finding him down there.

The lower level was just as England had left it before he was forced out of his home and into the servant’s quarters at Buckingham Palace. There was a shelf of potions to the west with all of his previous brews ready for use. To the east, he kept his cauldron and ingredients, which were slightly dusty from disuse. The center of the concrete floor held the scuffed marks of chalk lines forming a pentagram from his last casting.

England shivered. He had forgotten how cold the basement could be in the winter. He grabbed his wizarding cloak from the wooden peg next to the staircase and wrapped himself in the warm, slightly musty wool.

Next, he opened his box of matches and started a fire beneath the cauldron. England rubbed his hands together near the flames. When he had originally made the obedience potion, it had taken thirty days and thirty nights. Fortunately, this time he wasn’t brewing it for a nation. A weaker version would be more than sufficient for regular people.

With perfect measurements and absolute care, England followed the recipe in his old grimoire. Although he was well known for his lack of cooking prowess, the truth was that he was excellent at following recipes. He was just so used to brewing magical potions that he was accustomed to odd smells and occasional burning being part of the process. After all, who cared if an obedience potion _tasted_ bad as long as it _worked_.

The fairies buzzed around and watched as England carefully measured and added the ingredients to the cauldron. It was a simple enough recipe—just Herb Christopher, Dittany stalk, newt spleen, and rue. The key ingredient was a furious desire to bring someone under his power. To make them follow England’s every command and serve at his pleasure. The first time he had brewed it, his potion bore the powerful strength of his furious, heartbroken anger at America’s betrayal. He had cared for America deeply and watched over the young nation with greater fondness than anyone had ever shown for him, and it still wasn’t enough.

By the time he finished brewing it, his anger had subsided enough for him to see that America’s rebellion wasn’t personal. Nations always had reasons to go to war and one couldn’t be a national personification as long as England had been without learning to accept that. It still hurt, though.

Now, centuries later, England’s newest potion was fueled with righteous anger. He was fighting to free himself and to take down a selfish monarch.

The shimmering fairies watched him work with curiosity and excitement. They weren’t powerful fae, but they wanted to know how they could help.

“Turn off lights, make noises,” England suggested. “I want him to think this house is haunted.”

The fairies didn’t have much power in the physical world, but they did have enough to disrupt electrical current for a moment or cause the wind to knock extra loudly against the windows. They agreed with glee and soon England could hear the sound of floorboards creaking above him and wind rattling the shutters. Fairies were mischievous creatures and delighted in pulling pranks. He usually asked them to leave his house alone, but now they had his full-throated permission to do whatever they wanted.

While they played pranks, England focused on his potion. The flickering flames provided just enough heat and light to keep the basement comfortable as darkness fell. England smiled to himself as he stirred. He was sure it would be an interesting night for the house’s new occupant.

* * *

By the time dawn arrived, England was exhausted and his arms were cramped from stirring all night. He stared down into the pale lavender liquid and decided it was good enough for his purposes. England set down his stirring rod with a sigh of relief.

The fairies chittered in amusement around him and continued recounting their exploits from the night before. With all of the spooky noises and flickering lights, England doubted that the new owner had gotten more than an hour or two of sleep. He was resting fitfully now that the fairies had returned downstairs to flutter about England.

“Excellent job, my lovelies,” England praised them. It was time for him to finish the job. He used a spoon to pour a few droplets of obedience potion into a vial. With the vial firmly grasped in one hand, he flicked the cowl of his cloak over his head with his other hand.

Like a thief in the night, England quietly ascended the stairs. With nothing more than memory to guide him, he made his way to the foyer and climbed the staircase to the upper level. The fairies opened the door to his bedroom.

An old man lay in a twisted mass of sheets, dark circles beneath his eyes testifying to his sleepless night. His breath was steady and his eyes remained shut as England approached the bed. Even in the dim light, England recognized Archibald Keller. He’d been a pain in England’s behind for five years, and England was looking forward to some revenge, served cold.

Wincing at the strain in his exhausted arms, England lifted his hand over Keller’s head and poured a few droplets into his open mouth. The man stirred, but didn’t wake. England smiled to himself and stepped to the side of the room. He set the vial on top of the old oak dresser.

England rocked back and forth on a creaky floorboard. He had to repeat the motion several times before Keller began to stir. At that point, England stood silently next to the wall, his face shrouded in darkness. He waited as Keller slowly sat up and rubbed his blurry eyes. It took a few moments before Keller noticed, but it was worth the wait when the bossy old man turned his way and suddenly shrieked like a banshee.

“Be silent,” England commanded, earning instant silence. “Be still,” he added a moment later, before Keller could flee the room.

England smirked. The sight of Keller obeying his every command was immensely gratifying. He didn’t plan to hurt him, but he fully intended to get his house back, and it was too risky to have the confrontation without a way to prevent Keller from giving him orders. A few drops of the obedience potion would last a few days—enough to protect England, but not a disproportionate level of revenge on what had been, at his core, an annoying bureaucrat. Still, England was looking forward to having a bit of fun at the man’s expense.

“Archibald Keller, I am the ghost of Christmas past,” England intoned in his deepest, most ominous voice. “I have come to show you the error of your ways.”

Keller’s eyes widened as he sat frozen on the bed.

“You stole this house from its rightful owner,” England accused. “Tell me how and why.”

“I didn’t steal it,” Keller protested indignantly. “I was no longer needed as a Chief England Officer because he had been assigned more menial tasks. It was a good time to retire, and the Crown was generous enough to offer this house at a reasonable price as part of my retirement package, provided I told no one about it. I did nothing wrong.”

England rolled his eyes at the man’s sanctimonious self-denial. “Yes, you know a deal is on the up-and-up when you have to promise not to tell anyone about it. As the ghost of Christmas past, I’m here to show you the error of your ways.” He lifted the cowl and stared Keller straight in the eyes. “You’re a bitter, unhappy man because you treat people poorly. That’s why you always worked alone in the office on Christmas.”

Keller silently gaped.

“Give me back the house,” England commanded. “Clean it from top to bottom until there is no shred of evidence that you ever stepped foot within these walls, and then reflect on your life and how you can make amends. I believe it is traditional to deliver a Christmas ham to a family once you’ve realized what a scrooge you were,” he added, as a testament to the season.

The old man jerked out of bed. He unwillingly walked downstairs and returned with the house keys, which he gave to England with a look of anger.

“Clean quickly and thoroughly,” England ordered with a pleased smile on his face. After being forced to be a menial servant for endless months, it felt good to be the one in charge again. He couldn’t wait until he managed to slip some of the potion into the Queen’s drink.

While Keller cleaned the house, England returned to the basement with the vial and contemplated his options. Approaching the Queen stealthily would be a much trickier matter. She had guards and locks and was well aware of her ability to give England commands. All it would take would be one suspicious guard shouting ‘stop!’ and he would be right back where he started.

The fairies darted around him and suggested that it was time to ask America for help. For reasons England could never understand, they were very fond of America, despite the fact that he didn’t believe in them.

“Yes, I _know_ I could ask him for help,” England sighed in annoyance. “But I don’t want to be his damsel in distress. This is something I can solve on my own.” He glanced at the cauldron. Even to the fairies, he was unwilling to admit his fear that America would hate him forever if he ever learned that the original obedience potion had been brewed for him.

It hurt so much to lose America the first time. He couldn’t do it again now that there was a tentative acceptance on America’s part that their relationship was more than mere friendship. If things kept going well, perhaps in a decade or two he would even work up the courage to ask America on a date.

Despite the fact that he was unwilling to rely on America, there was someone else that England was willing to call for a favor. He turned on the phone that America had given him, ignored the dozens of unread texts and new messages, and placed a call to his former assistant.

Buckingham Palace always had a party for the holiday season, and England was going to make sure he had an invitation under someone else’s name.

Howard was more than eager to help. “Do you want to go anonymously because America is going?” he asked curiously.

England felt his mouth go dry. “When did he accept the invitation?”

“Just two days ago.”

“I see.” It seemed America had been doing more than just texting and calling. Although his presence would make England’s plans more difficult, the New Year’s party was still his best bet for sneaking into Buckingham Palace. England thanked Howard again for all his help and began preparations for his operation to give the Queen a taste of her own medicine.


	12. Chapter 12

A light dusting of snow fell on New Year’s Eve as England put the finishing touches on his plan. His clothes waited for him on the bed. A black morning coat, grey vest, and pair of pressed grey striped trousers offered him the perfect disguise for the party. He would walk in as a guest, but could slip away into the back rooms by pretending to be a butler. The finishing touch was a brown wig with shaggy enough fringe to cover his distinctive eyebrows.

The party wouldn’t start for another hour and England paced as he fretted over everything that could go wrong. Still, it was a risk he had to take if he ever wanted his life to be normal again. (At least, as normal as life could be for a national personification.)

England sat down in his favorite armchair and looked around the room with a feeling of temporary contentment. After months of forced servitude and menial labor, he had relished the opportunity to relax in his own home without worrying that someone would upend his life with a single command. He had sent Keller packing with strict instructions not to tell anyone of his return. Then he spent the final weeks of December puttering around his house and putting everything back into its proper place.

His furniture was still mostly intact, as were his kitchen utensils and housewares, but there were blank spaces on the walls where priceless paintings had once hung and blank places on his shelves. A collection that had taken him lifetimes to build had been ruined in less than a year. England had dug up a chest full of pirate treasure from his backyard to replenish his coffers and had used the funds to replace some of what he had lost. It hurt knowing that his first edition collection of Encyclopedia Brittanicas was with some greedy antiquarian, but he tried to keep his loss in perspective by remembering that his belongings never lasted as long as he did anyway. A few paintings and books were nowhere near as terrible as the destitution he had suffered during the Great Fire of London.

With those cheery thoughts in mind, his eyes landed on the open envelope lying next to his bed. It had been a risk to open the letter and read it, but one he couldn’t resist. Inside were a couple pages of notebook paper filled with America’s messy handwriting:

_Dear England,_

_I know you like letters better than texts, so I’m sending you this in the hopes you actually read it. I don’t know if it will make a difference, but there are a few things I have to get off my chest. Don’t worry, I’ve rewritten this so it isn’t as messy as what I usually write._

_First, I’m sorry I kicked you out of my house. I was so angry that I didn’t even listen to what you said. Obviously if you wanted to fool me you wouldn’t have admitted that your Queen was trying to match us up because of politics. You don’t need to worry about calling me an idiot, plenty of people already have._

_Second, I thought about what you said, and I think I get what you mean. My leaders have pushed me to date other nations too and I hated it. I don’t want to date someone because politicians think it’s a good idea. I want to date someone I really like._

There were a few words that had been scribbled out at the end of that sentence. Try as hard as he might, England couldn’t read what they said.

_Third, I want to talk to you in person. I’ve got important things to say. I’m not going to come busting down your door this time, because I think you’re already mad enough at me, but I hope I see you soon._

_I miss you._

_America_

After folding up the letter and setting it back on the table, England sighed wistfully. Life was certainly quieter without America’s poorly spelled texts and constant chatter, but it was also colder and lonelier.

The fairies fluttered around him, warning him that a visitor was coming. England glanced up at the clock and nodded to himself. “Yes, I know.”

He hurried downstairs and opened the front door before the doorbell even rang. Prussia stood grinning on his front doorstep. “Hey man, ready to get shitfaced?” he asked as he carried a six-pack into the dining room and set it on the table with a loud thunk. It was Preußens Pilsener, Prussia’s favorite.

“That’s hardly enough to get us drunk,” England remarked.

“Yeah, this is just the pre-game.” Prussia smiled slyly. “We’ll crash a party for more later.”

England rolled his eyes. “You’re not my fairy godmother, Prussia. I don’t need you to whisk me away to a party in a beautiful ball gown to meet a charming young man.” As tempting as the thought was of arriving at the gates of Buckingham Palace drunk and scandalizing the royal family with Prussia’s help, England had other plans.

“Hah!” Prussia used the bottle opener on his keychain to crack open two bottles. He handed one to England and then took a deep swig from the other. “So… I hear you’ve been sulking since you broke up with America.”

“We didn’t break up,” England replied and took a drink from his own bottle. It was a little too light for his taste, but he wasn’t one to complain about free booze. “We were never dating.”

“Your loss. If he’s anything like his brother…” Prussia waggled his eyebrows and grinned salaciously.

“Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you?” England asked, a hint of tartness in his voice.

“What?” Prussia blinked. “Nah, America was kinda curious, but we didn’t get far before his boss burst in on us. God, those days had so much repression. Him with the Puritans, you with the Victorians. No wonder you two can’t get things worked out.”

“The Victorians weren’t that bad.”

“They couldn’t hold a candle to the Elizabethans. Man, those Elizabethans knew how to throw a hell of a party. Better booze too.”

England couldn’t disagree with that, so he just shrugged and finished the rest of his beer. By that point, Prussia was on bottle number three. “If you keep drinking so quickly, you won’t have room for one of my basement brews,” England remarked casually.

“Those crappy old potions?” Prussia laughed. “I don’t know why you didn’t want to go digging around down there. That one last year didn’t do you any harm.”

“I was lucky,” England lied through his teeth. “Who knows what you might get.”

“Pfft.” Prussia snorted. “I’m sure the awesome me can handle it. Bring it on!”

England carefully kept the smile off his face as he hurried to fulfill the command. He fetched a bottle of something green and bubbly from the basement and offered it to Prussia.

Prussia drank straight from the bottle. “Huh, kinda minty. Certainly way better than…” his cheeks bulged and his eyes widened. He opened his mouth and spit out a frog. “...your cooking,” he finished as another frog hopped out of his mouth and onto the floor. “Ew.” A third frog followed the first two and all three hopped away as quickly as possible.

England smirked. “Do you like it? I was going to give it to France the next time he annoyed me, but I decided it would be cruel to the frogs to give him a never-ending supply of frog legs. Incidentally, the effects stop as long as you refrain from talking.”

Prussia gave him an annoyed look and flipped him off.

“It was your bloody idea in the first place!” England snapped. “I’ve been living with something much worse for a year just because you thought it would be fun to drink the potions and I was too plastered to say no. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake this year. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a party to attend.” England smirked. “Revenge is on the menu.”

Suddenly, a worried look crossed Prussia’s face. “America?” he mouthed, softly enough that only a small frog popped out of his mouth.

England just rolled his eyes and went upstairs to get dressed. His trousers and morning coat still fit perfectly. He knotted his black tie with precision that would have brought a tear to the eye of even the most persnickety butler. The finishing touches were his silver cuff-links, pristine white gloves, and a wig. England eyed his reflection in the hallway mirror and nodded with satisfaction at the way his fringe covered his eyebrows.

In the amount of time it took England to return downstairs, Prussia was already on his final bottle of beer. He drank glumly as he walked over to England’s liquor cabinet to check what England had on hand. He froze in shock when he saw that it was empty. He turned to look at England and gestured animatedly at the empty cabinet.

Seeing Prussia’s look of shock and horror was all the revenge England could ever want. He smirked. “That’s right. The frogs will wear off in a day. Your _real_ punishment is spending New Year’s Eve without another drop of alcohol.” And with that parting shot, he closed the door behind him and headed out into the cold, winter night.

* * *

Buckingham Palace sparkled with a light dusting of snow as England followed the crowd of young men inside. He paused to admire the festive decorations—pine wreaths and fairy lights decorated the halls. At the end of the great entryway stood three enormous Christmas trees covered in lights and beautiful ornaments.

After his months spent toiling with the other servants, England had a new appreciation for all of the work that had gone into decorating the palace and preparing it for a grand party. The guests would stay an hour or two after midnight, but the servants would be stuck cleaning up their mess until dawn. And then they would have to go right back to work on their usual cleaning routines.

“This way, Mr. Ignatius,” one of the servants said, directing England to the cloak room.

England nodded and tried not to roll his eyes at the silly name Howard had chosen for his fake invitation. As he hung up his coat and joined the others on their way to the ballroom, it was obvious why Howard had little difficulty getting him an invitation.

Nearly all of the guests were single young Englishmen with money, a title, or both. The reason for this selection criteria was obvious as England stepped into the ballroom and saw the two princesses—Henrietta and Gertrude—preening at the center of the dance floor in elaborate ball gowns of velvet and lace. Gertrude wore a hat that looked like an entire kaleidoscope of butterflies had landed on her head. Her wide smile showed she was pleased as punch with her hat, even though it was better suited to spring than winter. Next to her, Henrietta flirted with the wealthiest young men she could find. In this crowd, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.

England made his way to the far side of the ballroom, keeping his head down as he made his way through the crowd of eligible young bachelors. Some of them looked rather annoyed at the lack of female guests, but he imagined the gay ones were having the time of their lives. Given the lopsided attendance list, several men had even started dancing together.

As he reached the edge of the crowd, a hush fell over the room. Like the others, England turned to see who had caught everyone’s attention. He saw two people descending the grand staircase and instantly recognized the King’s eldest daughter, Princess Eleanor, with her handsome husband on her arm. The eldest Princess had her grandmother’s skill at commanding the attention of the entire room. Part of it was the way she glanced about the room and gave every person the impression that she had looked them directly in the eyes.

When she met England’s gaze, he felt a slight tinge on his skin. Eleanor arched an elegant eyebrow. His wig might trick the others, but it didn’t fool her. After they reached the bottom of the staircase, she whispered a few words into her husband’s ear and then gracefully made her way through the eddies of the crowd toward England while her husband worked the other side of the crowd. She paused here and there for brief pleasantries with people along the way. Like her grandmother, Eleanor also had the skill of conveying genuine interest in other people in just a few words. It helped that she spoke with everyone, not just the wealthiest or the most attractive.

It would be rude to leave before he spoke with Princess Eleanor, so England stayed in place. When the Princess reached him, she gave him a winning smile. “It’s been too long. I hope you’re having a Happy New Year’s Eve.”

“I am now,” England replied with a soft smile.

She laughed. “Could I interest you in a dance?”

“For you, anything,” England agreed as he offered her his hand and led her to the small dance area near the live band. One dance wouldn’t delay him too long and he couldn’t say no to his favorite princess.

Eleanor was an exceptional dancer and everyone’s eyes were on her as they danced circles around the others. England missed the days when everyone learned a wide array of couple and group dances. Modern parties just weren’t the same.

They had just finished the waltz when England felt someone tap him on the shoulder.

“Mind if I cut in?” a familiar voice drawled.

England whirled around. His stomach did an uncomfortable flip as he faced America. He had been hoping to avoid America until _after_ he confronted his Queen.

Princess Eleanor grinned. “He’s all yours,” she said with a wink. She slipped back into the crowd and returned to her task of conversing with all the other guests.

They silently started to dance as England took the lead position again. America let him, possibly because America didn’t remember which one was which. Although America wasn’t a particularly skilled dancer, he at least managed to avoid England’s toes as they did an awkward box waltz at the center of the dance floor. England could feel a few eyes glancing their way. It was probably because America was hard to ignore with his Hollywood looks and brilliant smile. He wondered if any of them recognized who he really was.

“What’s with the wig?” America asked with his customary lack of tact.

“I just want to enjoy a party without being the center of attention for once,” England replied. He gave America a searching look. “I’m surprised you’re not hosting your own party.”

America shrugged, missing the beat for a couple of steps before he caught up again. “It wouldn’t have been any fun without you there.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true! Your sarcastic insults are the life of the party. And watching movies with you is like having my own Mystery Science Theater 3000 all the time.”

“My chief weapon is dry wit,” England agreed. “Well, my three weapons are dry wit, comfy pillows, and Monty Python references,” he amended with a sly smile.

“So… are you still mad at me?” America asked, a hint of puppy dog in his eyes.

“No. I left because I had other work to do. I’m sorry I haven’t been more communicative, but it’s a rather pressing matter.”

“I see.” America nodded. “Any chance you’ll have more time soon?”

“Perhaps.” If everything went according to plan.

America looked disappointed, but he didn’t press further. Someone had clearly given him helpful tips on wooing England. Behaving more like a gentleman was at the top of the list.

The dance soon ended and by mutual agreement they moved off the dance floor. America had successfully made it through an entire dance without trodding on England’s feet. He probably realized it was best to quit while he was ahead.

“So… is there somewhere more private we could talk?” America asked, his face an unusual combination of hesitancy and hopefulness.

“In a bit.” England glanced at his watch and saw that time was ticking away from him. “I need to do a little more mingling first.”

America’s smile softened. “I’ll be waiting,” he promised.

Taking his leave before America could issue a command, England slipped through the crowd and into a servant’s pocket door in the corner of the room. He ducked into an alcove and stayed hidden as several servants walked past.

With the knowledge he had built over the course of several months slaving away in the Palace, England had no trouble taking seldom-used passages until he reached the safe where they stored the monarchy’s finest crystalware. He knew the King and Queen would insist on the most impressive champagne flutes for their midnight celebratory drink. And when they did… a few drops of obedience potion would be waiting for them at the bottom of the glass.

Except that the champagne flutes were already gone.

England glanced desperately around the room, but it was obvious a servant had already taken them upstairs. He grimaced and made his way back to the basement hallway and up the narrow servant stairs. There were servants bustling to and fro in the corridor as he stepped out onto the second floor. One took a look at his empty hands and promptly handed him a tray filled with glasses of water. “Take this to the Green Room,” she said.

Since that was the direction England was headed anyway, he breathed a sigh of relief as he grabbed the tray and walked quickly past the other servants. The Green Room was where the royals made sure that every hair was perfectly in place before going out in public. If the King and Queen were still waiting to make their grand entrance down the staircase, then he still had a chance to slip the potion into their glasses. He was tempted to put the potion into the water, but there were more than two glasses, and he wasn’t going to risk giving the potion to anyone other than the King and Queen.

England entered the room as quietly as only a well-trained servant could, making himself practically invisible as he set the tray next to the two lady’s maids who were checking the Queen’s outfit for even the slightest hint of dust or dirt. The women took some water and flashed him grateful smiles.

He nodded and slipped over to the table with the champagne flutes and an extremely expensive bottle of champagne. He grabbed a napkin and pretended to clean the already spotless crystal glass. As his hands moved along the glass, he snuck a tiny vial out of his coat pocket and poured a few drops of the liquid into each glass. The flutes glittered so beautifully that no one would even notice the slight sparkle of pale lavender liquid at the bottom.

Mission accomplished, England returned to the door with a smile and he had nearly made it before the Queen called haughtily, “Bring me a tissue.”

Hiding his grimace, England fetched a carefully folded tissue and kept his head down as he offered it to the Queen. He hoped she was distracted enough to ignore him, but she glanced up at him in surprise and carefully patted her red lipstick on the tissue to remove the excess before she smiled.

“Stay here,” Queen Lucille ordered England as she dismissed the other servants. “I hear you convinced America to come to the party. Things are progressing well, I take it?”

England nodded. If he could distract her long enough, there was still time for the plan to work. “Your daughters look lovely tonight,” he lied, appealing to a mother’s pride.

The Queen waved her hand dismissively. “Gertrude looks ridiculous, but she threatened to throw a fit in public if I didn’t let her wear that hat. Silly girl.”

“Eleanor is lovely,” King Richard said with pride. “What a fine Queen she’ll make.”

“Yes, she will,” England agreed. Sooner rather than later, if he had anything to say about it.

Queen Lucille narrowed her eyes. “Go fetch America, quickly. We need to make our entrance soon and I want a chance to introduce your relationship to the public.”

Try as he might, England couldn’t fight the direct order. He went back down the servant’s stairs with feet that ignored his commands. Every step closer he took to the ballroom, his feeling of dread grew. America reacted poorly the first time he heard about the Queen’s interest in their relationship growing; he would hate England forever if he saw the Queen ordering England around in person. Mouth curving downward into a terrible frown, England slipped back into the ballroom and found America where he had left him waiting. He gestured for America to come with him and the other nation followed him eagerly.

“Hey, is everything okay?” America asked, his face scrunched in worry.

“No,” England replied truthfully as he led America to the Green Room. “I haven’t been responding to you because I don’t want to take things further until I’ve dealt with my Queen and her unholy interest in our relationship.”

“But you _do_ want to take things further?” America pressed.

England rolled his eyes. “Pay attention, that wasn’t the important part of that sentence!”

He didn’t have a chance to say anything more because his feet had already taken him quickly back to the Green Room with America following on his heels. As they stepped through the door, the Queen was all smiles. America glanced at the two monarchs in surprise. “I thought we were going somewhere private?” he muttered.

The Queen beamed. “Oh, America! It’s so lovely to finally meet you.”

“Mother would have been so happy to see you two together,” the King added cheerfully. “She always hoped you would start dating.”

“She did?” England asked in surprise. “She never said anything.”

“She said it wasn’t her place to meddle in the romantic affairs of nations. They’ll figure it out eventually she always said. They have time.” The King laughed and heartily slapped America on the back.

America barely noticed the slap on the back. He just looked perplexed. “What are you talking about? England hasn’t even said he’s interested.” He gave England a deer-in-the-headlights look, like a suitor who was meeting the parents on the first date.

“Don’t worry about that,” the Queen replied happily. “Go on, England, say yes!”

“Y—” England said before he managed to clamp his mouth shut. A tangy metallic taste filled his mouth from where he had bitten his tongue.

America frowned at the painful grimace on England’s face. “Hey, look, ignore them. If you’re not interested, just say no.”

England stared at America and desperately shook his head.

“No you’re not interested or no you’re not saying no?” America wondered, his mouth curved downward in an uncharacteristic frown. “Look, if you just want to say no, I’d prefer it to whatever the heck this is,” he added, gesturing to the smiling King and Queen.

“Don’t be coy, England, say yes!” the Queen commanded.

“Y—” England struggled with every ounce of his will against the order and the obedience potion. “Y—” he fought down the word, stifling it in his throat. If he said yes, if he agreed to date America, he knew the Queen would ruthlessly use their relationship for her own purposes. America would quickly grow angry and dump him, ruining any chance he might ever have of finding happiness with another nation.

England hadn’t been able to save himself from forced labor, but he had always known, in the back of his mind, that he would outlive the Queen. Any pain could be tolerated as long as it was temporary. But dragging America into the mix was unforgivable. He had already lost America once, he couldn’t bear to do it again when they were so close to admitting what they had both known for a long time. She had ruined his life. He wasn’t going to let her hurt America.

“No!” England shouted furiously.

“What did you say?” the Queen demanded.

England glared. “I said _no_. Go to hell you horrible tyrant.”

She drew herself back in affront. “I am your Queen!”

“Not for long.” England smirked ruthlessly. “I can sense how the people feel. They’ve turned against you decisively. The last time I felt this much unrest ended in Cromwell’s rebellion.”

Shocked by disobedience by one she thought was completely under her control, the Queen paled and clutched a nearby armchair. “That’s not possible.”

“This is what happens when the people turn against you,” England explained. She had believed that he had to obey her because she was the Queen. Now that the obedience spell was broken, she would have to believe that the entire nation had turned against her. “No royal house lasts forever,” he reminded her. “Especially when it’s led by a greedy social-climber and a dullard stupid enough to marry her.”

“We can still fix this,” the Queen said desperately, reaching out to take the King’s hand.

He held her hand and squeezed gently. “I don’t know. England never lied to Mother.” He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t think we can, my dear.”

“You’re just going to give up?” she demanded angrily.

The King shrugged. “I never wanted the throne the way you did. Perhaps the best thing I could do as King would be to step down.”

Queen Lucille frowned and then sighed. England would say this for her. She was smart enough to see that there was more advantage in stepping down gracefully then being forced out. She nodded sadly and gave England a final parting look of anger. “You always were a horrible little country.”

After the two monarchs had left, America stared at England in confusion. “What was that?”

“An awful boss. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to drag you into that mess.”

“Are you kidding?” America beamed. “Watching you rip into her was fantastic. I wish I had brought popcorn.”

England rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, I’ll warn you next time I need to give a monarch a dressing down.”

“Great.” America’s smile softened as he took a step closer. “Ever since you left, I can’t stop thinking about you. And I was wondering if you were thinking of me?”

England gently cupped America’s cheek and smiled. “Always.”

A clock began to chime the hour. The two leaned in closer, gazing deep into each other’s eyes. As the tenth chime rang, their lips met for a sweet, gentle kiss.

“Happy New Year,” America wished a little breathlessly when they pulled away.

“It’s only ten,” England corrected him.

“Oh.” America blinked and a smile slowly suffused his face. “Wanna do that again at midnight?”

England smiled, feeling light and free for the first time in a year. “Absolutely.”


	13. Chapter 13

England and his new Queen sipped tea in the White Drawing Room as a pair of English Springer Spaniels played underfoot. Outside, cold rain drizzled on the dormant garden, but inside a roaring fire kept the room pleasantly warm.

The decorations were still the same—antique furniture and exquisite paintings—but the entire Palace had a lighter atmosphere. It helped that the servants had received generous raises at the beginning of the year. England had already seen more smiles around Buckingham Palace in one month than he had seen in his entire time as a servant.

“Is that really all you do at World Meetings? Catch up with other nations and discuss information that your leaders want shared?” Queen Eleanor asked as she refilled her cup and added a tiny amount of cream and a lump of sugar.

England nodded. “It’s varied over the centuries, but yes, that’s the main goal now. We hold them two or three times per year, typically connected with a summit.”

“Hmm.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It seems it’d be helpful for you to spend more time with other nations. To get a better sense of issues that might arise.”

“Not all nations are as well informed as you might think,” England warned. “Common sense can be in short supply at World Meetings.”

She laughed. “In my experience, common sense is in short supply in _every_ meeting. Fortunately for me, my advisor is the land of Sense and Sensibility.”

“And Pride and Prejudice,” England reminded her.

The retort earned a fond smile. “Yes, that too. Though I hope you’ll forgive me for being proud of my country. I feel like one of the luckiest leaders in the world to have you to guide me.”

England blushed at the compliment. With only a few exceptions, he’d always had a soft spot for his Queens. “I’m happy to serve as best I can. So you want me to spend more time at World Meetings?” he asked.

“Actually, I was thinking it would be useful for you to spend more time one-on-one with other nations, particularly our closest allies. I want to know more about our international relationships. As long as it’s not too much of a burden, of course.”

England eyed his Queen carefully, but the only hint of ulterior motives was a slight twinkling in her eyes and a sphinxlike smile. “I think I can manage that,” he replied dryly.

“Wonderful! I’m glad that’s settled.” Eleanor lifted one of the spaniels into her lap and scratched him behind the ears. She sighed happily. “This has all gone so much smoother than I thought it would. The kids love it here.”

“That’s probably because they covered the grand staircase in blankets and turned it into a slide.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Those little scamps!” The dog on her lap had to adjust its position as her shoulders shook with laughter.

“And your husband was the one helping them build it. I saw it on my way in,” England confirmed, without mentioning that he had given into the children’s eager pleas and joined them on the slide. The little prince and princess were angelic-faced cherubs with a penchant for mischief that would make a pixie blush.

“It’s important for children to be children. I always felt sorry for Henrietta and Gertrude. So much pressure from their mother to be perfect.” She watched England closely. “You know, it’s odd. I haven’t heard anything from Lucille lately.”

“No?” England asked innocently.

“Father said she had to tie up a few loose ends.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” England reassured her. “You know, if you hurry, I bet you could still join them on the slide.”

The Queen smiled. “I knew I could count on you for excellent advice.”

“Any time.”

England accompanied his Queen down the long hallway that led to the top of the grand staircase. He watched with a fond smile as a little girl in a sky blue pinafore raced toward her mother.

“Mommy, mommy, look how fast I can go!”

“I know. You’ve built a marvelous slide.” The Queen lifted the little girl into her lap and slid with her down to the ballroom floor.

“Again, again!” the girl cried and her parents happily obliged.

While the royal family was distracted, England took the servant’s staircase down to the lowest level. He followed the rumbling sound of industrial-size washers and dryers to the laundry room. In a small alcove to the side, a middle-aged woman sat bent over a sewing machine as she hemmed and mended delicate linens. Her head was wrapped in a scarf to keep the sweaty hair out of her face.

With her drab clothes and haggard expression, no one would recognize the former Queen.

England sauntered over to her sewing machine and smirked as he stepped into her line of vision. She glanced over at him, but continued with her tiny, neat stitches. England had given her orders to work hard and do her work well, and she couldn’t disobey. Not after the dose of obedience potion he had slipped into her drink on New Year’s Eve.

“Come to gloat?” Lucille demanded with a scowl.

 “A little,” England admitted as he casually leaned against the wall.

She harrumphed. “I always knew you were the vindictive sort.”

“Then you should have known better than to mess with me. If you’re going to be cruel, do it to nice people. They’re the most likely to forgive you.” He smirked. “I would have told you that if you had ever listened to my advice.”

Lucille finished her stitches and moved on to the next piece in simmering silence. “I hate this place.”

“It’s only a year. I could make you toil longer, but I believe in proportionate revenge.”

“And what have you done with my daughters?” she demanded angrily.

England shrugged. “Nothing. They were cruel, but it was a cruelty they learned from you. Perhaps some time away from you will help them forget.”

“ _I_ will never forget,” she promised venomously.

“Good.” England leaned closer, secure in the knowledge that the obedience spell would prevent her from hurting him in any way. “You use people like tools. You don’t care what happens to us as long as you get what you want. Even your husband suffered because he was just a useful pawn to you.”

“How _dare_ you,” she hissed. “I love Richard. Which is more than I can say for his first wife. She cheated on him, over and over. But she was young and beautiful, so no one cared. The whole country loved her. _You_ loved her.”

England raised a thick eyebrow. “Is that what this was about, after all this time? You wanted to punish an entire country, but all you had was me.”

“If I had ruled this country two hundred years ago, people would have worshiped me as a conquering Queen.”

“Probably,” England shrugged. “In those days, you could treat your armies and navies like pawns at your disposable. But the age of Slytherins is over. We prefer Hufflepuffs now.”

She stared at him blankly. “What are you talking about?”

“Never mind. Eleanor would have understood the reference.” England gave her a final, gloating smirk. “Well, keep up the good work. I have a plane to catch.”

* * *

Ten hours later, England landed at Dulles airport with a carry-on bag and fluttering butterflies in his stomach. America was waiting for him just outside the baggage claim, wearing his trademark jacket and a brilliant smile. He waved excitedly, not that England needed help spotting America in a crowd.

England hurried over. As much as he wanted to greet America with a kiss on the lips, he wondered if it was too soon. To the rest of the world, America was boisterous and obnoxiously loud. But in their first month together, England had seen a shyness he’d never expected from the normally confident man.

“Hey,” America said with a hesitant smile as England came to a halt just in front of him.

“Hello,” England replied, suddenly at a loss for words when America’s eyes were crinkling in that warm, affectionate way.

“Wanna kiss?” America asked.

“Oh god yes.” England eagerly leaned forward, only to find that instead of a passionate kiss on the lips, America was offering him a tear-drop shaped piece of candy in silver wrapping.

America smiled. “Here you go!”

The withering look England gave the Hershey’s Kiss was strong enough to remove paint from walls. Still, two could play that game. “Thank you, love,” England said with a smirk as he took the kiss and unwrapped it. Holding the chocolate by its tip, he daintily licked the chocolate while making soft, appreciative noises.

“Uh…” America watched dumbly. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he licked his lips.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want some?” England asked sweetly. He licked the last of the chocolate from his fingers.

America nodded. Taking that as an invitation, England crooked his finger into the v of America’s shirt and tugged the other nation down to his eye-level. England leaned forward and their lips met in a hungry kiss that tasted of chocolate. He slipped his tongue into America’s inviting mouth while America wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him closer. After a few moments spent making out in the middle of a crowded airport, America pulled back suddenly and gazed nervously at the crowd of people all around them. The other travelers walked past without a second glance.

“Honestly, no one cares,” England murmured reassuringly. He pulled his suitcase with one hand and took America’s hand with the other. They walked hand-in-hand to the parking garage, path lit by florescent lights in the chilly darkness. America’s hand was large and a little sweaty, but it felt good to be touching his boyfriend again after several weeks apart.

They climbed into America’s big truck and England stifled a yawn as he buckled himself into the passenger’s seat. The jet-lag kicked in on the drive back and he spent most of the time drowsing. It was only as they pulled onto a bumpy country road that he fully woke up again.

“So how’s everything going with the new Queen?” America asked when he noticed that England was awake.

England smiled. “Let’s just say, one of my new duties is spending more time with other nations.” It was a definite improvement over sweeping and cleaning.

America raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Do you think she knows about us?”

“I’m sure of it. But I’m not complaining if it means more frequent visits.”

“We could visit all fifty states!” America cried excitedly. “I’ve always wanted to show you Montana.”

“I’d love to,” England readily agreed. If it meant keeping that happy, excited smile on America’s face, he would even be willing to visit North Dakota.

By the time they pulled into the driveway of a large country home, America had already starting planning England’s next fifty plus trips. America bounded out of the car and carried England’s suitcase through the front door and up the main staircase.

The lights near the garage illuminated the house and helped England find his way. The house had pretty white siding, dark blue shutters, and an inviting porch. It was also far too large for one person. But nations had a tendency to collect centuries’ worth of stuff, so they preferred absurdly large houses. England closed the front door behind him and followed America up the stairs.

America had paused at the top of the landing. “The guest bedroom is ready. Or, if you wanted…” He trailed off and glanced toward his own bedroom. America’s master bedroom was as large as the rest of his house, with a king size bed that England knew from personal experience was as soft as sleeping on a cloud. It beckoned invitingly.

England hadn’t traveled a thousand miles to sleep in a cold bed. “I’d prefer to share yours, as long as you promise not to steal the blankets.”

“I don’t steal blankets!” America protested. He seemed pleased as he took England’s luggage into his bedroom and set it on the floor near the walk-in closet.

England rolled his eyes. He opened his suitcase and started hanging his sweater vests on the spare hangers in America’s closet. “Oh yes, all those times you wanted me to sleep in your bed with you after a horror film, it must have been a ghost that stole the blankets.”

America paled. “Can they do that?” he whispered.

“No, most spirits aren’t powerful enough to move material items.” England gave America a fond, yet exasperated look. “I still don’t understand how you can believe in ghosts but refuse to recognize that magic is real.”

“It’s ‘cause ghosts are scarier.”

“Trust me, magic can be far, far worse,” England insisted vehemently, shuddering as he remembered all of his forced labor over the past year.

America stepped closer. “You okay?” he asked in concern. Of all the changes to their relationship since they started dating, this was the one England liked the best. America no longer felt the need to hide his concern behind a joking bluster. And England didn’t need to hide his troubles for fear it would drag America into a nasty morasses with a cruel Queen. For all of his concerns that he would be used as a weapon against America, in the end, his feelings had turned out to be the one thing strong enough to break the spell.

“I am now,” England replied, giving America a soft smile. “Last year was a bit of a rough patch, but I’m finally in a place I’ve always wanted to be.”

“Me too.” America wrapped his arms around England and touched their foreheads together. After weeks apart, it felt good to be held in a warm embrace.

“Are you ready for your Valentine’s Day present?” England whispered into America’s ear.

A shiver went down America’s spine. “More kisses?”

“Kisses and more,” England murmured huskily.

Afterwards, they both agreed it was the best Valentine’s Day present ever. And England knew there would be many, many more to come.


End file.
